“Oh, don’t put your arms around me, Magnus! It would be heinous for me to be loved, or comforted by your sympathy, now. I who left my gentle, fragile mother alone, to be done to death for me; my dove-like mother, in the claws of the vulture. I, who was so much stronger, and who, having your protection also, should have remained to protect her. I to leave her, defenseless, and in peril for my sake, and to come flaunting off, so happy and thoughtless, like a very matron. Oh, Magnus, I could go to a nunnery, Magnus—I could go to a nunnery, Magnus. A hundred serpents are gnawing at my heart! Oh, Magnus, I can never be happy—never make you happy in this world again. Oh, Magnus, I am sorry—so sorry for you, too! You did not deserve a sorrow-stricken, remorseful wife. Oh, mother, dear, gentle mother, what harm did your innocent life do to anyone, that it should have been trampled out?” And then she burst into tears—such copious tears, such floods of tears, as only one of her strong and sanguine temperament could have shed. Tears and lamentations are the natural vent of a healthful sorrow. It is only the sorrow unto death that is mute and dry. And while she was drowned in tears, and wringing her hands, and wailing, and talking, Magnus walked up and down the floor, waiting as patiently as he would have waited for a storm of thunder, lightning, and rain to subside, except when some unfilial expression of bitter indignation against her father would escape her lips, when he would go up to her, and gently risk to stop her. “Dear Elsie, you must not speak so. Nothing that your father can do or say to me, or to others, can affect your duty toward him. Elsie, you must speak of your father with respect, or not speak of him at all. That is what your sainted mother would have advised, and, gentle as she was, enforced. There was nothing more admirable in Alice Garnet’s blameless character and conduct than the delicate reserve with which she concealed her own sufferings, and the gentle dignity with which she constrained the respect of all her friends for General Garnet. I often compared her to the dove, folding her wing over her mortal wound, to hide it from all eyes.” “Blessed mother!—oh, angel mother!” said Elsie, bursting into fresh floods. “She respected the husband in General Garnet—will you not respect the father?” at last said Magnus. “Oh, yes—yes, I will, indeed! I will never say another word about him. If I do, stop me—don’t let me, please, Magnus. I don’t wish to do wrong; but, oh, Magnus, is it not enough to try one’s faith—to kill one’s faith—when one so good as my mother is permitted to suffer and to die?” exclaimed Elsie, giving way to another extravagant burst of sorrow. Magnus knelt by her side, and took her hands, and stroked her hair, and wiped her tears, until the fresh gush of grief had spent itself, and then he said: