wealthy owner of all the fair landscape spreading for acres around
the elegant mansion he had built as the home of his beloved ones.

"Edward." Love's sweetest music was in the voice that uttered his
name, and love's purest touch in the hand that lay upon his arm.

A smile broke over the grave face of Markland, as he looked down
tenderly into the blue eyes of his Agnes.

"I never tire of this," said the gentle-hearted wife, in whose
spirit was a tuneful chord for every outward touch of beauty; "it
looks as lovely now as yesterday; it was as lovely yesterday as the
day my eyes first drank of its sweetness. Hush!"

A bird had just alighted on a slender spray a few yards distant, and
while yet swinging on the elastic bough, poured forth a gush of
melody.

"What a thrill of gladness was in that song, Edward! It was a
spontaneous thank-offering to Him, without whom not a sparrow falls
to the ground; to Him who clothes the fields in greenness,
beautifies the lily, and provides for every creature its food in
season. And this reminds me;" she added in a changed and more
sobered voice, "that our thank-offering for infinite mercies lies in
deeds, not heart-impulses nor word-utterances. I had almost
forgotten poor Mrs. Elder."

And as Mrs. Markland said this, she withdrew her hand from her
husband's arm, and glided into the house, leaving his thoughts to
flow back into the channel from which they had been turned.