Her newly-wedded husband had promised her no spring, but a pleasant
summer and autumn by his side. She could not help thinking of this
comparison, and what entirely different things from those she had
anticipated, the union with him had offered to this day. Tumult,
anxiety, conflict, a perpetual alternation of hard work and excessive
fatigue, this was his life, the life he had summoned her to share at his
side, without even showing any desire to afford her a part in his cares
and labors. Matters ought not, should not go on so. Everything that had
seemed to her beautiful and pleasant in her parents' home--was being
destroyed here. Music and poetry, that had elevated her soul, clever
conversation, that had developed her mind, were not to be found here.
Barbara's kind feelings could never supply the place of these lost
possessions; for her husband's love she would have resigned them all--
but what had become of this love?

With bitter emotions, she replaced the casket in the chest and obeyed the
summons to dinner, but found no one at the great table except Adrian and
the servants. Barbara was watching Bessie.

Never had she seemed to herself so desolate, so lonely, so useless as
to-day. What could she do here? Barbara ruled in kitchen and cellar,
and she--she only stood in the way of her husband's fulfilling his duties
to the city and state.

Such were her thoughts, when the knocker again struck the door. She
approached the window. It was the doctor. Bessie had grown worse and
she, her mother, had not even inquired for the little one.

"The children, the children!" she murmured; her sorrowful features