strife for gain and the sharp contests in business, where each seeks
advantages over the other, his heart was weary, and he would often
sigh in the ears of his loving home-companion, "Oh! for the wings of
a dove, that I might fly away and be at rest!"

And at length this consummation of his hopes came. A year of unusual
prosperity swelled his gains to the sum he had fixed as reaching his
desires; and, with a sense of pleasure never before experienced, he
turned all his affections and thoughts to the creation of an earthly
paradise, where, with his heart and home treasures around him, he
could, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," live a truer,
better, happier life, than was possible amid the city's din, or
while breathing the ever-disturbed and stifling atmosphere of
business.

And now his work of creation at Woodbine Lodge was complete.
Everywhere the hand of taste was visible--everywhere. You could
change nothing without marring the beauty of the whole. During all
the years in which Mr. Markland devoted himself to the perfecting of
Woodbine Lodge, there was in his mind just so much of
dissatisfaction with the present, as made the looked-for period,
when all should be finished according to the prescriptions of taste,
one in which there would be for him almost a Sabbath-repose.

How was it with Mr. Markland? All that he had prescribed as needful
to give perfect happiness was attained. Woodbine Lodge realized his
own ideal; and every one who looked upon it, called it an Eden of
beauty. His work was ended; and had he found rest and sweet peace?
Peace! Gentle spirit! Already she had half-folded her wings; but,
startled by some uncertain sound, she was poised again, and seemed