Various philosophical works which her husband admired, and which he
often read and discussed with her, were becoming favorite volumes.
There was something grand in the old philosopher's views of life and
its little ills and joys. There was something wonderful in their
curious speculations respecting the mysteries of the world beyond. Her
husband delighted in leading her mind through all their fantastic
windings as they groped for the truth so clearly revealed to us. He
praised his wife for her appreciation of such intellectual food, and
rejoiced that he had been so successful in winning the affection of a
truly intellectual woman. Her self-love was gratified, and her
diligence in diving deeper into his favorite works daily increased.

In her own home circle her heart had room to expand its choicest
tendrils. A noble boy three summers old was prattling at her feet, and
all the demands of fashion could not make her forget a mother's
duties. Still they were only the duties that pertained to his temporal
welfare, for the flame of devotion had smoldered to ashes on the
hearthstone of her heart.

The rain was dashing against the closed shutters one November night as
an anxious group gathered in Mrs. Allen's chamber. They were standing
on either side of a beautiful rosewood crib, whose hangings of azure
gauze were closely drawn aside. There lay a little form tossing and
restless, his little face and throat seemed scarlet as they rested on
the snowy pillow, and his little hand moved restlessly to and fro, as
if vainly striving to cool the burning heat. It was the mother's hand
that tirelessly bathed the scarlet brow and burning limbs. Servants
were constantly in waiting, but no hand but her husband's was allowed
to take her place.