inually impend over
your head--all these are more than weak imaginings; they are the
realities of my daily life, and give me, what I am almost ashamed to
confess, a sad and boding spirit."

"Nay, nay, dearest Mildred! Away with all these unreasonable
reckonings!" replied Butler, with a manner that too plainly betrayed the
counterfeit of mirth. "Seclusion has dealt unworthily with you. It has
almost turned thee into a downright sentimental woman. I will have none
of this stepping to the verge of melancholy. You were accustomed to
cheer me with sunny and warm counsel; and you must not forget it was
yourself who taught me to strike aside the waves of fortune with a glad
temper. The fates can have no spite against one so good as thou art!
Time may bear us along like a rough trotting horse; and our journey may
have its dark night, its quagmires, and its jack-o'lanterns, but there
will come a ruddy morning at last--a smoother road, and an easier gait;
and thou, my girl, shalt again instruct me how to win a triumph over the
ills of life."

"And we will be happy, Arthur, because all around us will be so," added
Mildred, catching the current of Butler's thoughts, with that ready
versatility which eminently showed the earnestness and devotion of her
feelings--"Ah, may heaven grant this boon, and bring these dreams to
life! I think, Arthur, I should be happier now, if I could but be near
you in your wanderings. Gladly would I follow you through all the
dangers of the war."

"That were indeed, love, a trial past your faculty to endure. No, no,
Mildred, she who would be a soldier's wife, should learn the soldier's
philosophy--to look with a resigned submission on the present events,
and trust to heaven for the future. Your share in this struggle is to
commune with your own heart in solitude, and teach it patience. Right
nobly have you thus far borne that grievous burden! The sacrifice that
you have made--its ever present and unmitigated weight, silently and
sleeplessly inflicting its slow pains upon your free and generous
spirit; that, Mildred, is the chief and most galling of my cares."

"This weary war, this weary war," breathed Mildred, in a pensive under
key, "when will it be done!"

"The longest troubles have their end," replied Butler, "and men, at
last, spent with the vexations of their own mischief, fly, by a selfish
instinct, into the bosom of peace. God will prosper our enterprise, and
bring our battered ship into a