concile him to my
paucity of attractions, and persuade him of my honesty; but what chance
have I, when every day, every hour of the day if he likes to put himself
to such frequent pain, he may see and bitterly note the contrast between
the woman of his choice and the woman of his fate--the woman from whom
he is irrevocably parted, and the woman to whom he is as irrevocably
joined. And I think that hardly a day passes that he does not give
himself the opportunity of instituting the comparison.

Not that he is unkind to me; do not think that. It would be impossible
to Roger to be unkind to any thing, much more to any weakly woman thing
that is quite in his own power. No, no! there is no fear of that. I have
no need to be a grizzle. I have no cross words, no petulances, no
neglects even, to bear. But oh! in all his friendly words, in all his
kindly, considerate actions, what a _chill_ there is! It is as if some
one that had been a day dead laid his hand on my heart!

How many, _many_ miles farther apart we are now, than we were when I was
here, and he in Antigua; albeit then the noisy winds roared and sung,
and the brown billows tumbled between us! If he would but _hit_ me, or
box my ears, as Bobby has so often done--a good swinging, tingling box,
that made one see stars, and incarnadized all one side of one's
countenance--oh, how much, _much_ less would it hurt than do the frosty
chillness of his smiles, the uncaressing touch of his cool hands!

I have plenty of time to think these thoughts, for I am a great deal
alone now. Roger is out all day, hunting or with his agent, or on some
of the manifold business that landed property entails, or that the
settlement of Mr. Huntley's inextricably tangled affairs involves. Very
often he does not come in till dressing-time. I never ask him where he
has been--never! I think that I know.

Often in these after-days, pondering on those ill times, seeing their
incidents in that duer proportion that a stand-point at a little
distance from them gives, it has occurred to me that sometimes I was
wrong, that not seldom, while I was eating my heart out up-stairs, with
dumb jealousy picturing to myself my husband in the shaded fragrance,
the dulcet gloom of the drawing-room at Laurel Cottage, he was in the
house with me, as much alone as I, in the dull solitude of his own room,
pacing up and down the carpet, or bending over an unread book.

I will tell you why I think so. One day--it is th