painful, dream-like state of feeling which suc- ceeds acute suffering, she found herself his wife.
There followed long weeks of happiness, for Margaret truly loved her husband, and his man- ner to her, though always quiet, was full of affectionate interest. At length a sort of shadow crept between them, which threatened wholly to blot out their sunshine. Margaret was exacting and jealous, though she made no complaints. Mr. Hope never knew what was passing in her mind, but he felt at times that a change had come over both, and strove in vain to assign a cause for the alteration. Margaret was morbidly zensitive in regard to pecuniary affairs, and her pride suffered intolerably at the thought of the obligations under which Mr. Hope had placed her, for every debt of her mother’s had been paid out of his own fortune. The slightest cool- ness in his manner caused her pain, and as his was a sensitive, uncommunicative nature, she found a thousand trifles over which to make her- self wretched for days. A single suspicion of her feelings would have led to an explanation om Mr. Hope’s part, but he never dreamed of her sufferings. and so the shadows darkened imper- ceptibly around them.
A few weeks before Margaret had become a mother, and in the engrossing cares of maternity, she forgot, for a little time, the thousand fancied annoyances which had caused her so much pain. But now a sudden reality was given to her doubts | —Mr. Hope had married her from pity, while his. heart was another's. The thoughtless gossip of | Mrs. Chilton, o silly, frivolous woman, had de- | stroyed the happiness of that wayward, but high- ; minded girl, and there was no power to remedy | the evil. :
There Margaret sat in the solitude of her: |
chamber, almost maddened by the tide of jeal- : ous bitterness which desolated her soul. All was 3 explained now; Mr. Hope’s coldness, his ead, 3 gentle manner: he did not love her, she was an ; -alien from his heart, a burthen in his home. Her firat impulse was to leave the house forever, ; it seemed impossible for her to remain there ; another hour, to meet again as her husband the ; man who had made her his wife only from feel-’; ings of commiseration.
The crying of her child roused her from those :
‘harrowing reflections, and she went into the: inner apartment where it lay. She took up the: infant and returned to the sitting-room, hushing 3 it to rest again with her soothing voice. While 3 the babe slumbered upon her knee, the little boy | stole into the chamber, and crept to her side with : 2 the confiding air which her gentleness had made | habitual with him.
‘*You must be quiet,” she said, when he began to talk, ‘*T cannot hear you now.”
The child looked wonderingly in her face, and
7 then stole away into a corner of the room intimi- dated by that strange severity. Margaret was not even aware that she had spoken to him, and } sat engrossed by her painful thoughts.
. At length her busband’s step sounded upon the stair, chilling her very heart as she listened. | ‘Allin the dark, Margaret,” he said, opening the door; “shall I ring for lights?’
If you choose,” she replied, coldly.
When the lamps were brought, he stooped for & moment over the child, then seated himself at @ table to read some letters.
‘He does not even notice that I am suffering,” thought Margaret, and her heart grew hard.
A sudden exclamation from her busband caused her to turn toward him. When he caught her eye he strove to appear calm, but she had dis- tinctly heard the smothered expression of pain, and saw his features working with agitation. But she made no remark, and Mr. Hope sat leaning his head upon his hand in deep thought.
When the bell rang for dinner, he rose and turned toward her.
‘“‘That was the bell, I think?’
“‘T am not going down to dinner,” she replied.
‘Are you ill?” he asked, anxiously.
“There is nothing the matter, but I do nt wish any dinner.”’
He urged her for several moments, and then left the room. When he returned he was dressed to go out.
‘I may not be in till late, Margaret,” he said, ‘‘do not sit up for me. Good-night, dear.”
He kissed the child, and would have pressed his lips to hers, but she resolutely turned away her head. He regarded her for a moment with ® surprised, pained look, and went away. She heard the hall door close behind him, and for the first time gave way to a burst of tears.
‘‘Mamma!” exclaimed the boy.
‘(Are you here still?” she said. ‘Go to bed at once.”
‘‘Has Willie been naughty?” he pleaded, ‘‘he is very sorry.”
‘*No, no; good-night—God bless my boy.”
She rang the bell and gave both children to the nurse. As she returned to her seat, she saw a paper lying upon the floor and picked it up— it was the letter her husband had been reading. Even at that moment Margaret would not have been guilty of the meanness of looking at it, but her eye fell upon a name—it was Miss Melville's —and she read the lines.
‘‘It seems that your particular friend, George
