in your heart. But now that there is one nearer
and dearer, and far, far worthier than I, I can hear nothing like this.
Nor are you fit just now to speak of these serious things: you are
discomposed--"

"One would think you were echoing Miss Miskin, Margaret,--`You are warm,
ma'am.' But you must hear this much. I insist upon it. If you would
have heard me, you would have found that I was not going to say a word
about my husband inconsistent with all the love and honour you would
have him enjoy. I assure you, you might trust me not to complain of my
husband. I have no words in which to say how noble he is. But, oh! it
is all true about the wretchedness of married life! I am wretched,
Margaret."

"So I see," said Margaret, in deep sorrow.

"Life is a blank to me. I have no hope left. I am neither wiser, nor
better, nor happier for God having given me all that should make a woman
what I meant to be. What can God give me more than I have?"

"I was just thinking so," replied Margaret, mournfully.

"What follows then?"

"Not that all married people are unhappy because you are."

"Yes, oh, yes! all who are capable of happiness: all who can love. The
truth is, there is no perfect confidence in the world: there is no rest
for one's heart. I believed there was, and I am disappointed: and if
you believe there is, you will be disappointed too, I warn you."

"I shall not neglect your warning; but I do believe there is rest for
rational affections--I am confident there is, if the primary condition
is fulfilled--if there is repose in God together with human love."

"You think that trust in God is wanting in me?"

"Do let us speak of something else," said Margaret. "We are wrong to
think and talk of ourselves as we do. There is something sickly about
our state while we do so, and we deserve to be suffering as we are.
Come! let us be up and doing. Let me read to you; or will you practise
with me till Edward comes back?"

"Not till you have answered my question, Margaret. Do you believe that
my wretchedness is from want of trust in God?"

"I believe," said Margaret, seriously, "that all restless and passionate
suffering is from that cause. And now, Hester, no more."

Hester allowed Margaret to read to her; but it would not do. She was
too highly wrought up for common interests. The reading was broken off
by her hysterical sobs; and it was clear that the best thing to be done
was to get her to bed, under