Cleve fancied that the cares that preyed upon his spirits were for Margaret, and when he sometimes almost regretted their marriage, that his remorse was principally for her, that all his caution and finesse were exacted by his devotion to the interests of his young wife, and that the long system of mystery and deception, under which her proud, frank, spirit was pining, was practised solely for her advantage. So Cleve was in his own mind something of a hero--self-sacrificing, ready, if need be, to shake himself free, for sake of his love and his liberty, of all the intoxications and enervations of his English life, and _fortis colonus_, to delve the glebe of Canada or to shear the sheep of Australia. He was not conscious that all these were the chimeras of insincerity, that ambition was the breath of his nostrils, and that his idol was--himself. And if he mistakes himself, do not others mistake him also, and clothe him with the nobleness of their own worship? Can it be that the lights and the music and the incense that surround him are but the tributes of a beautiful superstition, and that the idol in the midst is cold and dumb? Cleve, to do him justice, was moved on this occasion. He did--shall I say?--yearn to behold her again. There was a revival of tenderness, and he waited with a real impatience to see her. He did see her--just a little gleam of light in the darkened room; he stood beside the bed, clasping that beautiful hand that God had committed to his, smiling down in that beautiful face that smiled unutterable love up again into his own. "Oh! Cleve, darling--oh, Cleve! I'm so happy." The languid hands are clasped on his, the yearning eyes, and the smile, look up. It is like the meeting of the beloved after shipwreck. "And look, Cleve;" and with just ever so little a motion of her hand she draws back a silken coverlet, and he sees in a deep sleep a little baby, and the beautiful smile of young maternity falls upon it like a blessing and a caress. "Isn't it a darling? _Poor_ little thing! how quietly it sleeps. I think it is the dearest little thing that ever was seen--_our_ little baby!" Is there a prettier sight than the young mother smiling, in this the hour of her escape, upon the treasure she has found? The wondrous gift, at sight of which a new fountain of love springs up--never, while life remains, to cease its flowing. Looking on such a sight in silence, I think I hear the feet of the angels round the bed--I think I see their beautiful eyes smiling on the face of the little mortal, and their blessed hands raised over the head of the fair young mother. CHAPTER IV. LOVE'S REMORSE "Teach me, ye groves, some art to ease my pain, Some soft resentments that may leave no stain On her loved name, and then I will complain."