quickly away and answered sharply. After that, I said nothing, and I finally got accustomed to the look. I recollect when thy brother was born, he seemed like another man, though there was no outward change. When he spoke to me his voice was trembly, and sounded strange to my ears; but my own weakness, I thought, might account for that. He would take the babe to the window, before its eyes could bear the light; would pick it up when asleep, and hold it so tightly as to make the poor thing cry; then he would put it down quickly and walk out of the room without saying a word. I noticed all this, as I lay, but it gave me no concern: I knew not but that all men found their first children so strange and curious. To a woman, her first babe seems more like something familiar that is brought back to her, than something entirely new that is added to her life.

"I scarcely know how to make clear to thy mind another change that came over thy father while our little Richard still lived. I never could be entirely certain, indeed, when it commenced, because I fancied these things were passing moods connected with his serious thoughts-he was a man much given to reflection—and did not dream that they concerned myself. Therein, our quiet, ordered life was a misfortune. One day was like another, and we both, I think, took things as they were, without inquiring whether our knowledge of each other's hearts might not be imperfect. Oh, a storm would have been better, Hannah-a storm which would have shown us the wall that had grown up between us, by shaking it down! But thee will see that from the end-thee will see it, without my telling thee. Richard seemed graver and sterner, I thought, but he was much occupied with business matters at that time. After our child was taken from us, I began to see that he was growing thinner and paler, and often felt very uneasy about him. His manner towards me made me shy and a little afraid, though I could pick out no word or act that was not kind and tender. When I ventured to ask him what was the matter, he only answered: 'Nothing that can be helped.' I knew after

that, that all was not right, but my eyes were not opened to

the truth?

Here Friend Thurston passed, as if to summon strength to continue her narrative. Her withered hands were trembling, and she clasped them together in her lap with a nervous energy whiż dd not escape her daughter's eye. The latter had listened with breathless attention, waiting with mingled eager ness and dread for the dénonement, which she felt must be more or less tragic. Although her mother's agitation touched her own heart with sympathetic pain, she knew that the story had now gone too far to be left unfinished. She rose, brought a glass of water, and silently placed it on the little table beside her mother's chair. When she had resumed her seat, the latter continued:

- Within a year after our boy's death, thee was born. It was a great consolation to me then, although it has been a much greater one since. I hoped, too, that it would have made Richard a little more cheerfil, but he was, if any thing, quieter than ever. I sometimes thought him indifferent both to me and the babe. I longed, in my weakness and my comfort, to lay my head upon his breast and rest a while there. It seemed a womanly fancy of mine, but oh, Hannah, if I had had the courage to say that much! Once he picked thee up, stood at the window for a long while, with thee in his arms, then gave thee back to me and went out of the room without saying a word. The bosom of thy little frock was damp, and I know now that he must have cried over thee.

"I had not recovered my full strength when I saw that he was really ailing. I began to be anxious and uneasy, though I scarcely knew why, for he still went about his business as usual. But one morning-it was the nineteenth of the Fifth month, I remember, and on Seventh-day-he started to go to the village, and came back to the house in half an hour, looking fearfully changed. His voice, though, was as steady as ever. 'I believe I am not well, Gulielma,' he said to me; 'perhaps I'd better lie down a while. Don't trouble thyself—

it will soon be over.' I made him undress and go to bed, for my anxiety gave me strength. Then I sent for the doctor, without telling Richard what I had done. It was evening when the doctor came; thee was rather fretful that day, and I had taken thee into another room, for fear Richard might be disturbed. I only noticed that the doctor stayed a long time, but they were old friends, I thought, and might like to talk, By the time I had put thee to sleep, he had left and Richard was alone. I went directly to him. What is thee to take ?' I asked. 'Nothing,' he said, so quietly that I ought to have been relieved, but I do not know how it was-I turned to him trembling like a leaf, and cried out: 'Richard, thee has not told me all !'

"Yes, all, Gulielma,' said he, nothing will help I must leave thee.' I stared at him a while, trying to stand still, while every thing in the room went spinning around me, until I saw nothing more. I was lying beside him on the bed when I came to myself. My hair was wet: he had picked me up, poured water on his handkerchief and bathed my face. When I opened my eyes, he was leaning over me, looking into my eyes with a look I cannot describe. He breathed hard and painfully, and his voice was husky. 'I have frightened thee, Gulielma,' said he; but-but can thee not resign thyself to lose me?' His look seemed to draw my very soul from me; I cried, with a loud and bitter cry, Richard, Richard, take me with thee!' and threw my arms around his neck. Oh, my child, how can I tell thee the rest? He put away my arms, he held me back, and gasped, as he looked at me with burning eyes: Take care what thee says, Gulielma; I am dying, and thee dare not deceive me; does thee love me as I love thee-more than life, more, the Lord pardon me, more than heaven?' For the first time, I knew that I did. If it was a sin, it has been expiated. I cannot remember what was said, after that. It was all clear between us, and he would allow no blame to rest on me; but he could not speak, except at intervals. He held my hand all night, pressing it faintly in

his sleep. The next day he died.

"He had loved me thus all the time, Hannah, and it was the pride and the strength of his love which deceived me. would not ask for a caress or a tender word, because he thought that a woman who loved would freely give it-nor would he offer one, so long as he suspected that the sacred expression of his heart might be only passively received. Ah, it was a sad doubt of me on his part, a sad blindness towards him on mine. When he began to suffer from disease of the heart, and knew that his life was measured, his self-torture inGreased. He purposely tried to subdue the mild, tempered affection which he supposed I felt for him, in order that his death might be a lighter grief to me. And I lived with him, day after day, never guessing that his stern, set manner was not his real self! I do not dare to think on the cross he must have borne: my own seems heavy, and my spirit sometimes grows weary under it, and is moved to complain. Then I remember that by bearing it cheerfully I am brought nearer to him, and the burden becomes light."

Hannah Thurston listened to the last words with her face buried in her hands, and her heart full of pity and self-reproach. What was the pang of her own fruitless dream, her baffled ideal, beside the sharp, inconsolable sorrow which consumed her mother's years? What availed her studies, her intellectual triumphs, her fancied comprehension of life, in comparison with that knowledge of the heart of man thus fearfully won? Humble, as when, a child, she listened to her mother's words as the accents of infallible wisdom, she now bowed down before the sanctity of that mother's experience.

The widow leaned back in her chair, with closed eyes, but with a happy serenity on her weary face. Hannah took her hand, and whispered, with a broken voice: "Thank thee, mother!" The weak old arms drew her gently down, and the pale lips kissed her own.

"Bless thee, my daughter. Now take thy book and let me t a while."

Jannah took the book, but not to read,

CHAPTER XIII.

IN WHICH SPRING OPENS.

THE rainy Sunday was the precursor of a thaw, which lasted for a fortnight, and stripped the landscapes of Ptolemy of every particle of snow, except such as found a lodgment in fence-corners, behind walls, or in shaded ravines. The wands of the willow clumps along the streams brightened to a vivid yellow, and the myriad twigs of low-lying thickets blushed purple with returning sap. Frozen nights and muddy days enough were yet in store; but with every week the sun gained confidence in his own alchemy, and the edge of the north-wind was blunted. Very slowly, indeed, a green shimmer crept up through the brown, dead grass; the fir-woods breathed a resinous breath of awaking; pale green eyes peeped from the buds of the garden-lilacs, and, finally, like a tender child, ignorant of danger, the crocus came forth full blown and shamed the cowardly hesitation of the great oaks and elms.

During this season, Woodbury's intercourse with the society of the village was mostly suspended. After the termination of the Great Sewing-Union, families fell back into their narrower circles, and rested for a time both from their social and their charitable labors. Even the itinerant prophets and philanthropists ceased their visits, leaving Ptolemy in its normal darkness. Only Mr. Dyce, it was whispered, had again made his appearance at the Merryfields', where his spiritual sessions were attended by a select circle of the initiated. Neither Woodbury nor Mr. Waldo had been again invited to

attend.

All minor gossip, however, was lost sight of, in the interest