s my mother willful?" inquired Jessie, looking at her aunt.

"Sometimes."

"Was she happy?"

"No. I do not think she ever understood or rightly appreciated your
father. But, I should not have said this. She was a beautiful,
fascinating young creature, as I remember her, and your father was
crazy to get her. But I don't think they were very happy together.
Where the blame lay I never knew for certain, and I will make no
suggestions now."

"They were uncongenial in their tastes, perhaps," said Jessie.

"Dear knows what the reason was! But she died young, poor thing! and
your father was in a sad way about it. I thought, of course, he
would marry again. But he did not--living a widower until his
death."

"Is my mother's picture very much like her, Aunt Phoebe?"

"Very like her; but not so handsome."

"She was beautiful?"

"Oh, yes; and the reigning belle before her marriage."

Jessie questioned no farther. Her aunt's recollections of her mother
were all too external to satisfy the yearnings of her heart towards
that mother. Often had she sat gazing upon the picture which
represented to her eyes the form and face of a parent she had never
seen; and sought to comprehend some of the meanings in the blue orbs
that looked down upon her so calmly. But ever had she turned away
with vague, unquiet, restless feelings.

"If my mother had lived!" she would sometimes say to herself, "she
could comprehend me. Into her ears I could speak words that now
sleep on my lips in perpetual silence.

"Oh, if my mother were alive!" sobbed the unhappy girl, as the door
closed on the retiring form of worldly-minded Aunt Phoebe. "If my
mother were only alive!

"Affianced!" she said a little while after, as thought went back to
the interview between herself and Mrs. Loring which had just closed.
"Affianced! Yes, that was the word. 'He regards you as affianced,
and so do I!' How completely has this web invested me! Is there no
way of escape?" A slight shudder went through her frame. "Ah, well,
well!"--low and mournfully--"It may be that my woman's ideal has
been too exalted, and above the standard of real men. Mr. Dexter is
handsome; kind-hearted enough, no doubt; moderately well cultivated;
rich, elegant in manner, though a little too demonstrative; and,
most to be considered, loves me--or, at least, declares himself my
lover. That he is sincere I cannot doubt. His was not the role of a
skillful actor, but living expression. I ought