the kind soul that she was unable to benefit. This was the silent prayer—the silent fragrance rising from the bruised heart to heaven—while she loosened her babies’ clothes, and laid them in the crib to take their forenoon nap. And then she looked around the pleasant room with its agreeable associations, the extensive prospect from the windows of the broad river, the village with its little stir and bustle on the opposite side, the boundless bay with its occasional passing packet, all inspiring the feeling of life, liberty, and strength. If God is a kind father, as all his children devoutly feel and acknowledge, _Nature_ is a good nursing mother, and under the care of both, Hagar was even now beginning to feel her torpid life stir again. She was at _home_, under her own roof; what if the house were half a ruin—it was HER OWN. She was upon her own land, and though it was only a desert heath, it was HER OWN. There was a sense of independence in that, and of pride in the thought that for this home she was not indebted to Mr. Withers—for, though she still _must_ love him, in her high self-appreciation she now felt an unconquerable reluctance to receive anything from him who had withdrawn his love and personal protection. And then there was a sense of returning power in the new life that was tiding in and filling all her veins. Turning from the window, from which she had been gazing, her eye fell upon her own image in the glass; that glass which had so often reflected the slight dark figure of the high-spirited maiden, whose long blue-black ringlets glittered down a crimson cheek blushing with pride, _now_ gave back the form of the matron, whose fair, wan, spiritual face was faintly flushed with returning life, and softly shaded by the tiny black ringlets of the young hair just visible under the delicate lace border of her little cap. Hagar scarcely knew herself. It was so strange to see that changed picture in that frame. Returning and looking again at her children, she drew the light muslin curtain around them, and left the room to take a look through the house. She went into the large, old drawing-room hall, as it was called in those days, and there the first thing that met her eyes was her grand piano, and her harp, from the Rialto. Hagar started in surprise and embarrassment—the burden of obligation was beginning to feel oppressive—she called Tarquin in. “When did these arrive, and who brought them here?” “They ’riv’ ’tother day, ma’am, by the packet ‘Future,’ Cap’n Hope, who sent ’em up to the Hall by two sailors.” “With any message?”