Time would pass almost unregistered by us, but for the abruptness of some of its movements. Every country has its great national _datas_, which fix a period. Of late, in France, “the revolution,” and “three glorious days;” in Ireland, “the ninety-eight;” in Scotland “the forty-five;” in England, “the restoration,” “the riots.” These stormy doings are History’s high places. Yet events which effect changes as entire and as wonderful, continue untalked about or unthought of, because they have not been heralded by beat of drum, and written in fields of slaughter. So, in private life, time would pass for ever unregistered by us, but for the abruptness of some of its movements—things that seem either to stop its course or send it dashing forward. The most humble have their “great events”—their mental land marks. “It was just before I was married,” or “immediately after our eldest boy was born,” is the frequent observation of the wife and mother. The widow says, “before my husband died.” Poor Lucy, when the sufferings of pain were increased by the anxieties of duty, and retrospection was forced upon her, could only say, or think, “when my dear father was alive,”—that was her land mark! The duties incident to her new position; the exertion which children require, and which is _perpetual_, though parents are the only persons who do not feel it to be so; the exercise, the necessity for amusing and instructing the young, the high-spirited, and the active; these added to the change of repose for inquietude, of being the one cared for, to the having to care for others; the entire loneliness of spirit, all combined to make her worse, to crush utterly the already bruised reed. Lucy was fully sensible of the consoling power—the great PLEASURE of being useful; and her mind was both practically and theoretically Christian; so, she never yielded to fretfulness or impatience; she knew that, through all her trials—through her waking hours of pain, through the weary time of total incapacity for the fulfilment of her duties—God was with her, was her stay, was her support; was trying her, as pure gold is tried in the fire; would sustain her in spirit unto the end: she knew all this, she never doubted, but she suffered; her heart fluttered like an imprisoned bird, as she toiled and panted up the high stairs, while the children laughed and sported, with the spirit and energy of health, and called to her to ‘come faster.’ Night brought rest without refreshment; she could not sleep; and, stifling her cough, lest she should disturb others, she would look up to the starry sky, often repeating— “Oh! that I had wings like a dove;”