Again, the character, and deportment of each inmate in her household may present to her a trial. Self-denial must be practiced by some for the enjoyment of the remainder. How often does the lot fall upon her. The reputation of each near relative is another depository of her joys, or sorrows. Should he, whose position calls him to cherish and care for all beneath his roof, prove unkind, and selfish, and demand every arrangement to conform to his ease and appetites, on whom will the burden of the service required, be imposed? Does he yield to temptation abroad, forsake the partner of his bosom, and give himself up to sensual and inebriating habits, there is one heart that must bleed over his sins. Honor and pride, it may be, forbid her disclosing his errors, and the fire must consume her spirit in solitude. Needs she no support in this exigency? What can the world give her, adequate to her fathomless wants? But still heavier trials befall this sex in their homes. Sickness visits the loved. By the midnight lamp, the wife bathes an husband's burning brow; or the mother administers draughts to the parched lips of a daughter. To what fears is she then and there subject? Tediously roll the long hours. Not the body alone sinks, but the spirit at length faints. For the conviction is forced on her mind that life is endangered. Suspicion yields to apprehension; that again grows into argument. The physician shows signs of doubt; friends whisper anxieties. Swayed for a season between hope and fear, at length, the dread certainty comes over her. She must part with this being, dear as her own life. The fatal stroke is near; the hour arrives. Gone forever from mortal eyes is she, in whom blent "All images of comforter and friend, The fireside charmer, and the nurse of pain, Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, wings. What shall console" The survivor? To whom can we commend her who thus mourns the riven tie of a mother's love? Where is the solace for the dependent, affectionate female, who weeps over the ashes of a departed parent? A sister is at her brother's grave. Pleasant was their love, and who can assuage these bitter tears? The husband,--deepest of all life's bereavements,--perhaps it is he, for whom the funeral wail is now heard. What can time, and dust, and this tomb of earth, minister to her, who sits in the freshness of widowhood?