sitting down in Winthrop's chair bent her look as he had done
into the decaying bed of coals.

He was standing in the shadow of the mantelpiece, and looking
down in his turn scanned her face and countenance as a little
while before she had scanned his. Hers was a fine face, in
some of the finest indications. It had not, probably it never
had, the extreme physical beauty of her first-born, nor the
mark of intellect that was upon the features of the second.
But there was the unmistakable writing of calm good sense, a
patient and possessed mind, a strong power for the right,
whether doing or suffering, a pure spirit; and that nameless
beauty, earthly and unearthly, which looks out of the eyes of
a mother; a beauty like which there is none. But more; toil's
work, and care's, were there, very plain, on the figure and on
the face, and on the countenance too; he could not overlook
it; work that years had not had time to do, nor sorrow
permission. His heart smote him.

"Mamma," he said, "you have left out the hardest difficulty of
all. -- How can I go and leave you and papa without me?"

"How can you? My child, I can bear to do without you in this
world, if it is to be for your good or happiness. There is
only one thing, Winthrop, I cannot bear."

He was silent.

"I could bear anything -- it would make my life a garden of
roses -- if I were sure of having you with me in the next