“Hagar! oh! what _is_ the matter? Hagar! tell me, what _is_ the matter? Oh! dear me! The house grows more sorrowful every day! Time passes like a funeral train leading shortly to the grave. Oh! I feel faint, sick, dying of gloom, of coldness and darkness in seeing your sorrow and not being admitted to share it, and not being able to do anything to alleviate it. Hagar! tell me; perhaps I _can_ do something for you; I love you so much, dear Hagar! and surely _love_ can help sorrow to bear her burden. Oh! Hagar! let me do something for you!” She was looking _so_ beautiful! _so_ winsome! with her pleading, coaxing attitude and expression, with her soft white fingers pressed together, with her blue eyes raised floating in tenderness and love to her face. She was looking so beautiful! so graceful! so irresistibly charming in her childlike humility and gentleness! Hagar thought of her husband’s heart, and looked at Rosalia. The fire flamed in and out upon her cheeks, burned on her lips, and shot lightning through her eyes;—rising, she pushed Rosalia off, and walked away. “Oh! it is I! It is _I_, who have offended you somehow! what have I done, Hagar? dear Hagar!” exclaimed Rose, following her, weeping. “Nothing! nothing! Oh! go away!” “Have I not done something to offend you?” “Nothing, Rosalia! Oh leave the room; do!” “You are angry with me!” “No! no! not with _you_!” “With whom, then?” “Rosalia! leave the room this moment when I tell you; haven’t I said that I would not be questioned?” “Hagar! yes, I will go. One word, let me say one word, and then I _will_ go. Hagar, I suppose it is Raymond—you are angry with him. Hagar! oh! _do not_ treat him so badly, cruelly; make up with him; please _do_; see how unhappy he is! see how hard he tries to be pleasant; but he cannot disguise his sorrow. Oh! dear me! what _does_ make you two fall out so? Oh! dear me! I do wish I was in Heaven—_all I love here do make me suffer so much! so much!_” and she fell sobbing into a chair, while the dark clouds lowered, and the rain pattered heavily upon the window. At last Rosalia arose and left the chamber, crossed the hall, and entered the nursery. Mrs. Barnes and the housekeeper were both engaged dressing the children; they were now nearly five months old, and when they saw Rosalia enter, both began to bound in their nurse’s arms, to crow and laugh, and hold out their hands joyously to Rosalia. The clouds fled from the young girl’s face before the morning sun of their innocence and love, and a tender smile softened her gentle countenance as she floated towards them, murmuring in low music— “God bless my darlings! God love my angels! _they_ are glad to see me _always_!” As the children were now dressed she sat down in a large chair, and received them both into her arms, saying, as they fondled on her—