"DON'T talk to me in such a serious strain, Aunt Hannah. One wouldreally think, from what you say, that James and I would quarrelbefore we were married a month."
"Not so soon as that, Maggy dear. Heaven grant that it may not comeso soon as that! But, depend upon it, child, if you do not make'bear and forbear' your motto, many months will not have passed,after your wedding-day, without the occurrence of some seriousmisunderstanding between you and your husband."
"If anybody else were to say that to me, Aunt Hannah, I would bevery angry."
"For which you would be a very foolish girl. But it is generally theway that good advice is taken, it being an article of which nonethink they stand in need."
"But what in the world can there be for James and I to havedifferences about? I am sure that I love him most truly; and I amsure he loves me as fondly as I love him. In mutual love there canbe no strife--no emulation, except in the performance of goodoffices. Indeed, aunt, I think you are far too serious."
"Over the bright sky bending above you, my dear niece, I would not,for the world, bring a cloud even as light as the filmy, almostviewless gossamer. But I know that clouds must hide its clear, calm,passionless blue, either earlier or later in life. And what I saynow, is with the hope of giving you the prescience required to avoidsome of the storms that may threaten to break upon your head."
"Neither cloud nor storm will ever come from that quarter of the skyfrom which you seem to apprehend danger."
"Not if both you and James learn to bear and forbear in your conducttoward each other."
"We cannot act otherwise."
"Then there will be no danger."
Margaret Percival expressed herself sincerely. She could not believethat there was the slightest danger of a misunderstanding everoccurring between her and James Canning, to whom she was shortly tobe married. The well-meant warning of her aunt, who had seen andfelt more in life than she yet had, went therefore for nothing.
A month elapsed, and the young and lovely Maggy pledged her faith atthe altar. As the bride of Canning, she felt that she was thehappiest creature in the world. Before her was a path winding amidgreen and flowery places, and lingering by the side of still waters;while a sunny sky bent over all.
James Canning was a young lawyer of some talent, and the possessorof a good income independent of his profession. Like others, he hadhis excellencies and his defects of character. Naturally, he was ofa proud, impatient spirit, and, from a child, had been restlessunder dictation. As an offset to this, he was a man of strictintegrity, generous in his feelings, and possessed of a warm heart.Aunt Hannah had known him since he was a boy, and understood hischaracter thoroughly; and it was this knowledge that caused her tofeel some concern for the future happiness of her niece, as well asto speak to her timely words of caution. But these words were notunderstood.
"We've not quarrelled yet, Aunt Hannah, for all your fears," saidthe young wife, three or four months after her marriage.
"For which I am truly thankful," replied Aunt Hannah. "Still, Iwould say now, as I did before, 'Bear and forbear.'"
"That is, I must BEAR every thing and FORBEAR in every thing. Ihardly think that just, aunt. I should say that James ought to do alittle of this as well as me."
"Yes, it is his duty as well as yours. But you should not think ofhis duty to you, Maggy, only of your duty to him. That is the mostdangerous error into which you can fall, and one that will be almostcertain to produce unhappiness."
"Would you have a wife never think of herself?"
"The less she thinks of herself, perhaps, the better; for the moreshe thinks of herself, the more she will love herself. But the moreshe thinks of her husband, the more she will love him and seek tomake him happy. The natural result of this will be, that her husbandwill feel the warmth and perceive the unselfishness of her love;this will cause him to lean toward her with still greatertenderness, and prompt him to yield to her what otherwise he mighthave claimed for himself."
"Then it is the wife who must act the generous, self-sacrificingpart?"
"If I could speak as freely to James as I can speak to you, Maggy, Ishould not fail to point out his duty of bearing and forbearing, asplainly as I point out yours. All should be mutual, of course. Butthis can never be, if one waits for the other. If you see your duty,it is for you to do it, even if he should fail in his part."
"I don't know about that, aunt. I think, as you said just now, thatall this is mutual."
"I am sorry you cannot or will not understand me, Maggy," repliedAunt Hannah.
"I am sorry too, aunt; but I certainly do not. However, don't, pray,give yourself any serious concern about James and me. I assure youthat we are getting along exceedingly well; and why this should notcontinue is more than I can make out."
"Well, dear, I trust that it may. There is no good reason why itshould not. You both have virtues enough to counterbalance alldefects of character."
On the evening of that very day, as the young couple sat at thetea-table, James Canning said, as his wife felt, rather unkindly, atthe same time that there was a slight contraction of his brow--
"You seem to be very much afraid of your sugar, Maggy. I never get acup of tea or coffee sweet enough for my taste."
"You must have a sweet palate. I am sure it is like syrup, for I putin several large lumps of sugar," replied Margaret, speaking in aslightly offended tone.
"Taste it, will you?" said Canning, pushing his cup across the tablewith an impatient air.
Margaret sipped a little from the spoon, and then, with anexpression of disgust in her face, said--
"Pah! I'd as lief drink so much molasses. But here's the sugar bowl.Sweeten it to your taste."
Canning helped himself to more sugar. As he did so his wife noticedthat his hand slightly trembled, and also that his brow was drawndown, and his lips more arched than usual.
"It's a little matter to get angry about," she thought to herself."Things are coming to a pretty pass, if I'm not to be allowed tospeak."
The meal was finished in silence. Margaret felt in no humour tobreak the oppressive reserve, although she would have been glad,indeed, to have heard a pleasant word from the lips of her husband.As for Canning, he permitted himself to brood over the words andmanner of his wife, until he became exceedingly fretted. They wereso unkind and so uncalled for. The evening passed unsocially. Butmorning found them both in a better state of mind. Sleep has awonderful power in restoring to the mind its lost balance, and incalming down our blinding passions. During the day, our thoughts andfeelings, according with our natural state, are more or less markedby the disturbances that selfish purposes ever bring; but in sleep,while the mind rests and our governing ends lie dormant, we comeinto purer spiritual associations, and the soul, as well as thebody, receives a healthier tone.
The morning, therefore, found Canning and his wife in better statesof mind. They were as kind and as affectionate as usual in theirwords and conduct, although, when they sat down to the breakfasttable, they each experienced a slight feeling of coldness on beingreminded, too sensibly, of the unpleasant occurrence of the previousevening. Margaret thought she would be sure to please her husband inhis coffee, and therefore put into his cup an extra quantity ofsugar, making it so very sweet that he could with difficulty swallowit. But a too vivid recollection of what had taken place on thenight before, caused him to be silent about it. The second cup wasstill sweeter. Canning managed to sip about one-third of this, buthis stomach refused to take any more. Noticing that her husband'scoffee, an article of which he was very fond, stood, nearlycup-full, beside his plate, after he had finished his breakfast,Margaret said--
"Didn't your coffee suit you?"
"It was very good; only a little too sweet."
"Then why didn't you say so?" she returned, in a tone that showedher to be hurt at this reaction upon what she had said on theprevious evening. "Give me your cup, and let me pour you out somemore."
"No, I thank you, Margaret, I don't care about any more."
"Yes, you do. Come, give me your cup. I shall be hurt if you don't.I'm sure there is no necessity for drinking the coffee, if not toyour taste. I don't know what's come over you, James."
"And I'm sure I don't know what's come over you," Canning thought,but did not say. He handed up his cup, as his wife desired. Afterfilling it with coffee, she handed it back, and then reached him thesugar and cream.
"Sweeten it to your own taste," she said, a little fretfully; "I'msure I tried to make it right."
Canning did as he was desired, and then drank the coffee, but it waswith the utmost difficulty that he could do so.
This was the first little cloud that darkened the sky of theirwedded life; And it did not fairly pass away for nearly a week. Northen did the days seem as bright as before. The cause wasslight--very slight--but how small a thing will sometimes make theheart unhappy. How trifling are the occurrences upon which we oftenlay, as upon a foundation, a superstructure of misery! Had theearnestly urged precept of Aunt Hannah been regarded,--had thelesson--"Bear and Forbear," been well learned and understood byMargaret, this cloud had never dimmed the sun of their early love. Apleasant word, in answer to her husband's momentary impatience,would have made him sensible that he had not spoken with propriety,and caused him to be more careful in future. As it was, both weremore circumspect, but it was from pride instead of love,--and moreto protect self than from a tender regard for each other.
Only a month or two passed before there was another slightcollision. It made them both more unhappy than they were before. Butthe breach was quickly healed. Still scars remained, and there weretimes when the blood flowed into these cicatrices so feverishly asto cause pain. Alas! wounds of the spirit do not close any moreperfectly than do wounds of the body--the scars remain forever.
And thus the weeks and months went by. Neither of the marriedpartners had learned the true secret of happiness in their holyrelation,--neither of them felt the absolute necessity of bearingand forbearing. Little inequalities of character, instead of beingsmoothed off by gentle contact, were suffered to strike against eachother, and produce, sometimes, deep and painful wounds--healing, toooften, imperfectly; and too often remaining as festering sores.
And yet Canning and his wife loved each other tenderly, and felt,most of their time, that they were very happy. There were littlethings in each that each wished the other would correct, but neitherfelt the necessity of self-correction.
The birth of a child drew them together at a time when there wassome danger of a serious rupture. Dear little Lilian, or "Lilly," asshe was called, was a chord of love to bind them in a closer union.
"I love you more than ever, Maggy," Canning could not help saying tohis wife, as he kissed first her lips and then the soft cheek of hischild, a month after the babe was born.
"And I am sure I love you better than I did, if that were possible,"returned Margaret, looking into her husband's face with a glance ofdeep affection.
As the babe grew older the parent's love for it continued toincrease, and, with this increase, their happiness. The chord whichhad several times jarred harshly between them, slept in profoundpeace.
But, after this sweet calm, the surface of their feelings becameagain ruffled. One little incongruity of character after anothershowed itself in both, and there was no genuine spirit offorbearance in either of them to meet and neutralize any suddeneffervescence of the mind. Lilly was not a year old, before they hada serious misunderstanding that made them both unhappy for weeks. Ithad its origin in a mere trifle, as such things usually have. Theyhad been taking tea and spending an evening with a friend, a widowlady, for whom Mrs. Canning had a particular friendship. As therewas no gentleman present during the evening, the time passed ratherheavily to Canning, who could not get interested in the conversationof the two ladies. Toward nine o'clock he began to feel restless andimpatient, and to wonder if his wife would not soon be thinkingabout going home. But the time passed wearily until ten o'clock, andstill the conversation between the two ladies was continued withundiminished interest, and, to all appearance, was likely tocontinue until midnight.
Canning at length became so restless and wearied that he said,thinking that his wife did not probably know how late it was,--
"Come, Margaret, isn't it 'most time to go home?"
Mrs. Canning merely looked into her husband's face, but made noanswer.
More earnestly than ever the ladies now appeared to enter upon thevarious themes for conversation that presented themselves, all ofwhich were very frivolous to the mind of Canning, who wasexceedingly chafed by his wife's indifference to his suggestionabout going home. He determined, however, to say no more if she satall night. Toward eleven o'clock she made a movement to depart, andafter lingering in the parlor before she went up stairs to put onher things, and in the chamber after her things were on, and on thestairs, in the passage, and at the door, she finally took the arm ofher husband and started for home. Not a word was uttered by eitheruntil they had walked the distance of two squares, when Margaret,unable to keep back what she wanted to say any longer, spoke thus,--
"James, I will thank you, another time, when we are spending anevening out, not to suggest as publicly as you did to-night that itis time to go home. It's very bad manners, let me tell you, in thefirst place; and in the second place, I don't like it at all. I donot wish people to think that I have to come and go just at yourbeck or nod. I was about starting when you spoke to me, but sat anhour longer just on purpose."
The mind of Canning, already fretted, was set on fire by this.
"You did?" he said.
"Yes, I did. And I can tell you, once for all, that I wish this tobe the last time you speak to me as you did to-night."
It was as much as the impatient spirit of Canning could do to keepfrom replying--
"It's the last time I will ever speak to you at all," and thenleaving her in the street, with the intention of never seeing heragain. But suddenly he thought of Lilly, and the presence of thechild in his mind kept back the mad words from his lips. Not onesyllable did he utter during their walk home, although his wife saidmuch to irritate rather than soothe him. Nor did a sentence pass hislips that night.
At the breakfast table on the next morning, the husband and wifewere coldly polite to each other. When the meal was completed,Canning retired to his office, and his wife sought her chamber toweep. The latter half repented of what she had done, but hercontrition was not hearty enough to prompt to a confession of herfault. The fact that she considered her husband to blame, stood inthe way of this.
Reserve and coldness marked the intercourse of the unhappy couplefor several weeks; and then the clouds began to break, and therewere occasional glimpses of sunshine.
But, before there was a clear sky, some trifling occurrence put themagain at variance. From this time, unhappily, one circumstance afteranother transpired to fret them with each other, and to separate,rather than unite them. Daily, Canning grew more cold and reserved,and his wife met him in a like uncompromising spirit. Even theirlovely child--their darling blue-eyed Lilly--with her sweet littlevoice and smiling face, could not soften their hearts toward eachother.
To add fuel to this rapidly enkindling fire of discord, was the factthat Mrs. Canning was on particularly intimate terms with the wifeof a man toward whom her husband entertained a settled andwell-grounded dislike, and visited her more frequently than she didany one of her friends. He did not interfere with her in the matter,but it annoyed him to hear her speak, occasionally, of meeting Mr.Richards at his house, and repeating the polite language he used toher, when he detested the character of Richards, and had not spokento him for more than a year.
One day Mrs. Canning expressed a wish to go in the evening to aparty.
"It will be impossible for me to go to-night, or, indeed, thisweek," Canning said. "I am engaged in a very important case, whichwill come up for trial on Friday, and it will take all my timeproperly to prepare for it. I shall be engaged every evening, andperhaps late every night."
Mrs. Canning looked disappointed, and said she thought he mightspare her one evening.
"You know I would do so, Margaret, with pleasure," he replied, "butthe case is one involving too much to be endangered by anyconsideration. Next week we will go to a party."
When Canning came home to tea, he found his wife dressed to go out.
"I'm going to the party, for all you can't go with me," said she.
"Indeed! With whom are you going?"
"Mrs. Richards came in to see me after dinner, when I told her howmuch disappointed I was about not being able to go to the partyto-night. She said that she and her husband were going, and that itwould give them great pleasure to call for me. Am I not fortunate?"
"But you are not going with Mr. and Mrs. Richards?"
"Indeed I am! Why not?"
"Margaret! You must not go."
"Must not, indeed! You speak in quite a tone of authority, Mr.Canning;" and the wife drew herself up haughtily.
"Authority, or no authority, Margaret"--Canning now spoke calmly,but his lips were pale--"I will never consent that my wife shall beseen in a public assembly with Richards. You know my opinion of theman."
"I know you are prejudiced against him, though I believe unjustly."
"Madness!" exclaimed Canning, thrown off his guard. "And this fromyou?"
"I don't see that you have any cause for getting into a passion, Mr.Canning," said his wife, with provoking coolness. "And, I must say,that you interfere with my freedom rather more than a husband hasany right to do. But, to cut this matter short, let me tell you,once for all, that I am going to the assembly to-night with Mr. andMrs. Richards. Having promised to do so, I mean to keep my promise."
"Margaret, I positively forbid your going!" said Canning, in muchexcitement.
"I deny your right to command me! In consenting to become your wife,I did not make myself your slave; although it is clear from this,and other things that have occurred since our marriage, that youconsider me as occupying that position."
"Then it is your intention to go with this man?" said Canning, againspeaking in a calm but deep voice.
"Certainly it is."
"Very well. I will not make any threat of what I will do, Margaret.But this I can assure you, that lightly as you may think of thismatter, if persevered in, it will cause you more sorrow than youhave ever known. Go! Go against my wish--against my command, if youwill have it so--and when you feel the consequence, lay the blameupon no one but yourself. And now let me say to you, Margaret, thatyour conduct as a wife has tended rather to estrange your husband'sheart from you than to win his love. I say this now, because I maynot have--"
"James! It is folly for you to talk to me after that fashion,"exclaimed Margaret, breaking in upon him. "I--"
But before she could finish the sentence, Canning had left the room,closing the door hard after him.
Just an hour from this time, Mr. and Mrs. Richards called in theircarriage for Mrs. Canning, who went with them to the assembly. Anhour was a long period for reflection, and ought to have affordedsufficient time for the wife of Canning to come to a wiserdetermination than that from which she acted.
Not half a dozen revolutions of the carriage wheels had been made,however, before Margaret repented of what she had done. But it wasnow too late. The pleasure of the entertainment passed before her,but it found no response in her breast. She saw little but the pale,compressed lip and knit brow of her husband, and heard little buthis word of disapproval. Oh! how she did long for the confusedpageant that was moving before her, and the discordant mingling ofvoices and instruments, to pass away, that she might return and tellhim that she repented of all that she had done.
At last the assembly broke up, and she was free to go back again tothe home that had not, alas! proved as pleasant a spot to her as herimagination had once pictured it.
"And that it has not been so," she murmured to herself, "he has notbeen all to blame."
On being left at the door, Mrs. Canning rang the bell impatiently.As soon as admitted, she flew up stairs to meet her husband,intending to confess her error, and beg him earnestly to forgive herfor having acted so directly in opposition to his wishes. But shedid not find him in the chamber. Throwing off her bonnet and shawl,she went down into the parlours, but found all dark there.
"Where is Mr. Canning?" she asked of a servant.
"He went away about ten o'clock, and has not returned yet," wasreplied.
This intelligence caused Mrs. Canning to lean hard on thestair-railing for support. She felt in an instant weak almost as aninfant.
Without further question, she went back to her chamber, and lookedabout fearfully on bureaus and tables for a letter addressed to herin her husband's handwriting. But nothing of this met her eye. Thenshe sat down to await her husband's return. But she waited long.Daylight found her an anxious watcher; he was still away.
The anguish of mind experienced during that unhappy night, it wouldbe vain for us to attempt to picture. In the morning, on descendingto the parlour, she found on one of the pier-tables a letter bearingher name. She broke the seal tremblingly. It did not contain manywords, but they fell upon her heart with an icy coldness.
"MARGARET: Your conduct to-night has decided me to separate myselffrom a woman who I feel neither truly loves nor respects me. Theissue which I have for some time dreaded has come. It is better forus to part than to live in open discord. I shall arrange every thingfor your comfortable support, and then leave the city, perhaps forever. You need not tell our child that her father lives. I wouldrather she would think him dead than at variance with her mother.
'JAMES CANNING.'"
These were the words. Their effect was paralyzing. Mrs. Canning hadpresence of mind enough to crush the fatal letter into her bosom,and strength enough to take her back to her chamber. When there, shesunk powerless upon her bed, and remained throughout the day tooweak in both body and mind to rise or think. She could do littleelse but feel.
Five years from the day of that unhappy separation, we find Mrs.Canning in the unobtrusive home of Aunt Hannah, who took the almostheart-broken wife into the bosom of her own family, after thepassage of nearly a year had made her almost hopeless of ever seeinghim again. No one knew where he was. Only once did Margaret hearfrom him, and that was on the third day after he had parted fromher, when he appeared in the court-room, and made a most powerfulargument in favour of the client whose important case had preventedhis going with his wife to the assembly. After that he disappeared,and no one could tell aught of him. A liberal annuity had beensettled upon his wife, and the necessary papers to enable her toclaim it transmitted to her under a blank envelope.
Five years had changed Margaret sadly. The high-spirited, blooming,happy woman, was now a meek, quiet, pale-faced sufferer. Lilly hadgrown finely, all unconscious of her mother's suffering, and was avery beautiful child. She attracted the notice of everyone.
"Aunt Hannah," said Margaret, one day after this long, long periodof suffering, "I have what you will call a strange idea in my mind.It has been visiting me for weeks, and now I feel much inclined toact from its dictates. You know that Mr. and Mrs. Edwards are goingto Paris next month. Ever since Mrs. Edwards mentioned it to me, Ihave felt a desire to go with them. I don't know why, but so it is.I think it would do me good to go to Paris and spend a few monthsthere. When a young girl, I always had a great desire to see Londonand Paris; and this desire is again in my mind."
"I would go, then," said Aunt Hannah, who thought favourably of anything likely to divert the mind of her niece from the broodingmelancholy in which it was shrouded.
To Paris Mrs. Canning went, accompanied by her little daughter, whowas the favourite of every one on board the steamer in which theysailed. In this gray city, however, she did not attain as muchrelief of mind as she had anticipated. She found it almostimpossible to take interest in any thing, and soon began to long forthe time to come when she could go back to the home and heart of hergood Aunt Hannah. The greatest pleasure she took was in going withLilly to the Gardens of the Tuileries, and amid the crowd there tofeel alone with nature in some of her most beautiful aspects. Lillywas always delighted to get there, and never failed to bringsomething in her pocket for the pure white swans that floated sogracefully in the marble basin into which the water dashed cool andsparkling from beautiful fountains.
One day, while the child was playing at a short distance from hermother, a man seated beside a bronze statue, over which drooped alarge orange tree, fixed his eyes upon her admiringly, as hundredsof others had done. Presently she came up and stood close to him,looking up into the face of the statue. The man said something toher in French, but Lilly only smiled and shook her head.
"What is your name, dear?" he then said in English.
"Lilly," replied the child.
A quick change passed over the man's face. With much more interestin his voice, he said--
"Where do you live? In London?"
"Oh no, sir; I live in America."
"What is your name besides Lilly?"
"Lilly Canning, sir."
The man now became strongly agitated. But he contended vigorouslywith his feelings.
"Where is your mother, dear?" he asked, taking her hand as he spoke,and gently pressing it between his own.
"She is here, sir," returned Lilly, looking inquiringly into theman's face.
"Here!"
"Yes, sir. We come here every day."
"Where is your mother now?"
"Just on the other side of the fountain. You can't see her for thelime-tree."
"Is your father here, also?" continued the man.
"No, I don't know where my father is." "Is he dead?" "No, sir;mother says he is not dead, and that she hopes he will come homesoon. Oh! I wish he would come home. We would all love him so!"
The man rose up quickly, and turning from the child, walkedhurriedly away. Lilly looked after him for a moment or two, and thenran back to her mother.
On the next day Lilly saw the same man sitting under the bronzestatue. He beckoned to her, and she went to him.
"How long have you been in Paris, dear?" he asked.
"A good many weeks," she replied.
"Are you going to stay much longer?"
"I don't know. But mother wants to go home."
"Do you like to live in Paris?"
"No, sir. I would rather live at home with mother and Aunt Hannah."
"You live with Aunt Hannah, then?"
"Yes, sir. Do you know Aunt Hannah?" and the child looked upwonderingly into the man's face.
"I used to know her," he replied.
Just then Lilly heard her mother calling her, and she started andran away in the direction from which the voice came. The man's facegrew slightly pale, and he was evidently much agitated. As he haddone on the evening previous, he rose up hastily and walked away.But in a short time he returned, and appeared to be carefullylooking about for some one. At length he caught sight of Lilly'smother. She was sitting with her eyes upon the ground, the childleaning upon her, and looking into her face, which he saw was thinand pale, and overspread with a hue of sadness. Only for a fewmoments did he thus gaze upon her, and then he turned and walkedhurriedly from the garden.
Mrs. Canning sat alone with her child that evening, in thehandsomely-furnished apartments she had hired on arriving in Paris.
"He told you that he knew Aunt Hannah?" she said, rousing up from astate of deep thought.
"Yes, ma. He said he used to know her."
"I wonder"--
A servant opened the door, and said that a gentleman wished to seeMrs. Canning.
"Tell him to walk in," the mother of Lilly had just power to say. Inbreathless suspense she waited for the space of a few seconds, whenthe man who had spoken to Lilly in the Gardens of the Tuileriesentered and closed the door after him.
Mrs. Canning raised her eyes to his face. It was her husband! Shedid not cry out nor spring forward. She had not the power to doeither.
"That's him now, mother!" exclaimed Lilly.
"It's your father!" said Mrs. Canning, in a deeply breathed whisper.
The child sprung toward him with a quick bound and was instantlyclasped in his arms.
"Lilly, dear Lilly!" he sobbed, pressing his lips upon her brow andcheeks. "Yes! I am your father!"
The wife and mother sat motionless and tearless with her eyes fixedupon the face of her husband. After a few passionate embraces,Canning drew the child's arms from about his neck, and setting herdown upon the floor, advanced slowly toward his wife. Her eyes werestill tearless, but large drops were rolling over his face.
"Margaret!" he said, uttering her name with great tenderness.
He was by her side in time to receive her upon his bosom, as shesunk forward in a wild passion of tears.
All was reconciled. The desolate hearts were again peopled withliving affections. The arid waste smiled in greenness and beauty.
In their old home, bound by threefold cords of love, they now thinkonly of the past as a severe lesson by which they have been taughtthe heavenly virtue of forbearance. Five years of intense sufferingchanged them both, and left marks that after years can never efface.But selfish impatience and pride were all subdued, and their heartsmelted into each other, until they became almost like one heart.Those who meet them now, and observe the deep, but unobtrusiveaffection with which they regard each other, would never imagine,did they not know their previous history, that love, during oneperiod of that married life, had been so long and so totallyeclipsed.
THE END.
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