A little to the left of the blazing, too-hot fire, sat Alice, in a rocking-chair, and—a reverie. There was but one change in Alice since we saw her last. The sunny ringlets of her unfaded hair (be it remembered that she was but thirty-five), the sunny ringlets of her hair were turned around her cheek, and their end twisted around with her back braid. A little lace cap which she wore, because she said a cap was proper for her at her time of life, and in her relations, sat gracefully upon her still beautiful head, and gave a softness to the outline of her delicate and spiritual face, making her seem even more youthful and beautiful than before. She had been embroidering an infant’s dress, but the work had dropped into her lap, and her hand had fallen upon the little snow-white heap of muslin, and the richly-chased gold thimble glittered idly in the firelight; but the tiny foot, in the delicate slipper, was not idle—it turned upon the rockers of a cradle, where, amid downy pillows and soft white drapery, reposed a lovely babe of about two months of age. Altogether this beautiful and graceful group was a little out of keeping with the log cabin, to which it nevertheless lent a charm. But then, Elsie had always laughingly said that her mother was an ingrain “lady,” while she herself, for her own part, was “only a woman.” Elsie having finished making out her biscuits, brought the tray to the fire to put them on to bake. While kneeling with one knee upon the hearth to arrange her bread in the oven, she looked up at her mother’s pensive face, and said, sympathetically: “Dear mother, it seems to me you are not happy, though you would have us believe it is so?” “Elsie, no one is perfectly happy; that is a saying as old as the plucking of the forbidden fruit that first brought suffering into the world, and yet we never believe it. We are ever striving for that perfect happiness which is impossible.” “I do not believe it to be impossible, dear mother. I am a firm believer in perfect earthly happiness; I am so near it myself. Why, even now, I should be perfectly happy but for the shadow on your brow, mother.” “‘But,’ there is ever a ‘but.’ It is the order of life, and I am content with it. Be at ease, dear; I, too, should be perfectly happy, but——” “What, dearest mother?” “I am a living falsehood, Elsie.” “Mother!” “Child, I did not mean to speak so strongly. But I have a secret to keep that pains me always—a sinful secret, inasmuch as I am conscious that the keeping of it may cause sin in others.” “Sin, mother?” “Yes, Elsie; your father is in the prime of life; he believes himself a widower. What if he were to marry again?” “Ha! I never thought of that. It seems so strange to me that people should ever marry again.”