The mother is one of those women whose short stature, round development of form and limb, clear complexion and abounding joyousness of look, seem more lovable in the eyes of a certain portion of the masculine race, than all the stately beauties in the world. Certainly, she was a pretty woman. Her eyes of clear, deep blue, her lips of cherry red, harmonized with the hue of her face, her neck and shoulders,--a hue resembling alabaster, slightly reddened by a glimpse of sunshine. Her hair rich and flowing, was neatly disposed about the round outlines of her young face. And in color,----ah, here's the trouble. I see the curl of your lip and the laugh in your eyes. And in color, her hair was not black, nor golden, nor brown, nor even auburn. Her hair was red. You may laugh if it suits you, but her red-hair became her; and this woman with the red-hair, was one of the prettiest, one of the most lovable women in the world. (Why is it that a certain class of authors, very poverty stricken in the way of ideas, always introduce a red-haired woman in the character of a vixen,--always expect you to laugh at the very mention of red-hair--in fact, invest the capital of what little wit they have, in lamentably funny allusions to red-heads, red-hair, and so forth? Or if they fall in love with a sweet woman, with bright red-hair, why do these authors, when they make sonnets to the object of their choice, persist in calling red-hair by the ambiguous name of _auburn_?) And thus, in her quiet home, with her baby on her breast and her boy at her knee, sat the beautiful woman, with red hair. Sat there, the very picture of a good mother and a holy wife, lulling her babe to sleep with a verse from some old-fashioned hymn. Somehow this mother, centered thus in her quiet home--the blessing of motherhood around and about her like a baptism,--seems more worthy of reverence and love, than the entire first circle of the opera, blazing with bright diamonds and brighter eyes, on a gala night. The boy resting one hand on his mother's knee, and looking all the while into her face, asks in his childish tones, "When will father come home?" "Soon, love, very soon," the mother answers, and resumes the verse of the old hymn. Now, doesn't it strike you that the husband of such a wife, and the father of such children must be altogether a good man? We will see him after awhile, and judge for ourselves. Meanwhile, sit alone with your children, and watch for his coming,--you, simple hearted woman, that know no higher learning, than the rich intuitions of a mother's love. Your chastity is like a vail of light, making holy the room in which you watch, with your boy at your knee, and your baby on your bosom. CHAPTER VII. THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. It was a strange march which Arthur and Barnhurst, arm in arm, took through the streets of the Empire City.