comes, and go as it rolls into silence; come, lighting up the blindness of her mind as the lightning comes, and go as it flashes out into darkness; come as the storm comes, and pass as it passes. They would come at first unexpected, unbidden, impetuous, and irresistible,—nor could she send them away till a more convenient season, nor could she at will summon them. At length she found the spell to call these “Spirits from the vasty deep.” She found her power, though now she played with it only for her pleasure. The pent-up fire of her soul—that burned in her bosom, rocking to and fro, lashing its shores as a sea of flame in storm—the soul that blazed in and out upon her cheek, and flamed through her eyes until their gaze seemed to scorch you; the soul found vent in poetry and in music. And she would have been happy, _but_ in the grand diapason of her life was one broken chord, that left a blank, or gave out discord—her jealousy. One evening, as usual, Rosalia was seated at the piano, playing and singing one of Moore’s melodies. Raymond was seated near her, and his very soul seemed floating out upon the waves of the music; presently he arose and went to the back of her chair where he stood bending over her, unconsciously half embracing her. She raised her eyes and welcomed him by a beaming smile, without pausing in her music. Soon, however, he turned and looked for Hagar; she was sitting in a distant part of the room, buried in the shades of a deep arm-chair—her head bent forward and resting on her hand, while her profile was concealed by the veil of her ringlets. She did not look up or notice his glance. He spoke to her; she raised her eyes—he beckoned her to come, but with a bitter smile, she shook her head in refusal; then his eyes fastened on her with a fierce anger, piercing through their tenderness, which now for the first time she did not heed; then with a quick and threatening nod, he turned away and gave his attention up to the music. Not one whit of this dumb show had Rosalia noticed. At last her song was over, and rising she left the piano. An hour after, Raymond Withers entered the dressing-room of his wife. She had thrown herself upon the lounge, and her head was drooped over one end, while all her ringlets falling down shaded her face. He approached—and standing over her with folded arms, he said— “Hagar!” She did not speak or move. “_Hagar!_” She looked up, silently. “_Hagar!_ I say.” “Well?” “What is the matter?” “Nothing.” “_Nothing!_—do not speak falsely, Hagar! tell me at once, what is the matter?” She smiled a haggard smile, and rising, went to her dressing-glass and began to unclasp her bracelets. He followed, and taking her hand, led her back to the sofa, seated her, and stood before her, folded his arms, and looking steadily at her, said, sternly,