ingly to that
beloved mother, as she added--"How we shall miss the quiet reading
hours, mother, darling. What time shall we have during our robing and
unrobing for 'the _gentle Una and her milk-white lamb_,' and '_those
bright children of the bard, Imogen, the fair Fidele and lovely
Desdemona_?' What use is there in all this decking and adorning? Life
is far happier spent in one's own home."

"I fear," said Agnes, as she fondly caressed her daughter, "that I
have made my Lillie too much of a household darling; but I have done
it to avoid a greater evil. We women must love something--such a
wealth of affection is stored within our hearts, that we are rendered
miserable if it is poured out upon one human being, after being pent
up within bounds, during childhood and girlhood up to womanhood.
Should my Lillie be unfortunate in her love--I mean her wedded
love--the misery will not be half so intense, for her heart belongs,
at least two-thirds, to her family and mother, and no faithless lover
can ever boast the possession of the whole of it."

"No, indeed," exclaimed the dear girl, drawing her mother's face down
to hers--"my whole heart is yours, _chere maman_, and yours it shall
always be."

With what rapture gleamed the mother's eyes, as she returned the
daughter's fond caresses. Some day, dear reader, I may tell you what
happened to Lillie Mason's heart, but now my thoughts are o'er-hung
with the dark mantle of the past, and I can only think of the mother's
former life.

Agnes Howell was a beautiful girl--there was so much purity in her
appearance. The gentle beam of her blue eye was angelic, and her
auburn ringlets hung over her clear fair brow and soft cheek as if
caressing that lovely face. Then she was such a contrast to her
family--an only daughter among a troop of strong, stout clever
brothers--merry healthy-minded boys were they, but the gentle Madonna
sister in their midst seemed an "angel unawares." Agnes' mother was an
excellent woman, strong-minded, pains-taking, but a little hard and
obtuse in feeling. She no more understood the gentle spirit and deep
heart-yearnings of the daughter God had given her than she did the
mystery of life. She loved her with all the strength of her nature,
but she made no companion of the quiet girl, and thought if she kept
her wardrobe in good order, watched her general health, and directed
her serious reading, she did all that was required of her. Agnes grew
up a dreamer, an