be hurtful. It is one of life's brightest sunbeams, encouraging the
weak, soothing the long-suffering, bringing rest to the weary and
hope to the desponding.

Something of this Mary longed to urge, but her husband had already
turned away, and the words died on her lips.

Time passed on. Another and another child had been added to the
number, until four bright little faces were seen around the family
table. The father seemed unchanged. Increasing years had altered
neither the outer nor the inner man, but in the wife and mother few
would have recognized the warm-hearted, impulsive girl, who ten
years before had left her fathers home, with bright visions of the
future floating before her youthful mind.

Whence came that perfect calmness of demeanour, that almost stoical
indifference to all that was passing around her? To husband,
children, and servants she was the same. Their comfort was cared
for, the routine of daily duties strictly performed, but always with
that cold, lifeless manner, strangely at variance with her natural
disposition.

But the change had come gradually, and the husband noticed it not.
To him, Mary had only grown more matronly, and, wisely laying aside
the frivolity of girlhood, had acquired the sedateness of riper
years. True, there were moments when his indifference was somewhat
annoying. Although he never praised, he often blamed, and his
lightest word of rebuke was at first always met with a gush of
tears, but now there was no sign of emotion; the placid countenance
remained unchanged, and quietly he was told that his wishes should