"I can be happy any, where, if only my husband and children are
left. My husband, so generous, so noble-minded--my children, so
innocent, so loving."

Instantly the fountain of tears were closed. These unselfish words,
spoken in her own heart, checked the briny current. Not for an
instant did Mrs. Markland seek to deceive herself or hearken to the
suggestion that it was but a passing state in the partner of her
life. She knew too well the origin of his disquietude to hope for
its removal. In a little while, she descended and joined her family
in the sitting-room, where the soft astral diffused its pleasant
light, and greeted her sober-minded husband with loving smiles and
cheerful words. And he was deceived. Not for an instant imagined he,
after looking upon her face, that she had passed through a painful,
though brief conflict, and was now possessed of a brave heart for
any change that might come. But he had not thought of leaving
Woodbine Lodge. Far distant was this from his imagination. True--but
Agnes looked with a quick intuition from cause to effect. The
elements of happiness no longer existed here for her husband; or, if
they did exist, he had not the skill to find them, and the end would
be a searching elsewhere for the desired possession.

"You did not answer my question, Agnes," said Mr. Markland, after
the children had retired for the evening, and they were again alone.

"What question?" inquired Mrs. Markland; and, as she lifted her
eyes, he saw that they were dim with tears.

"What troubles you, dear?" he asked, tenderly.