guor and sweet thoughts are over the world. Sometimes at such
moments there would be heard from her a faint sob, called forth, it was
quite as likely, by the recollection of the triumph as by that of the
deathbed. With these pictures to go back upon at her will she was never
dull, but saw herself moving through the various scenes of her life with
a continual sympathy, feeling for herself in all her troubles,--sometimes
approving, sometimes judging that woman who had been so pretty, so happy,
so miserable, and had gone through everything that life can go through.
How much that is, looking back upon it!--passages so hard that the wonder
was how she could survive them; pangs so terrible that the heart would
seem at its last gasp, but yet would revive and go on.

Besides these, however, she had many mild pleasures. She had a pretty
house full of things which formed a graceful _entourage_ suitable, as
she felt, for such a woman as she was, and in which she took pleasure for
their own beauty,--soft chairs and couches, a fireplace and lights
which were the perfection of tempered warmth and illumination. She had a
carriage, very comfortable and easy, in which, when the weather was
suitable, she went out; and a pretty garden and lawns, in which, when she
preferred staying at home, she could have her little walk, or sit out
under the trees. She had books in plenty, and all the newspapers, and
everything that was needful to keep her within the reflection of the busy
life which she no longer cared to encounter in her own person. The post
rarely brought her painful letters; for all those impassioned interests
which bring pain had died out, and the sorrows of others, when they were
communicated to her, gave her a luxurious sense of sympathy, yet
exemption. She was sorry for them; but such catastrophes could touch her
no more: and often she had pleasant letters, which afforded her something
to talk and think about, and discuss as if it concerned her,--and yet did
not concern her,--business which could not hurt her if it failed, which
would please her if it succeeded. Her letters, her papers, her books,
each coming at its appointed hour, were all instruments of pleasure. She
came down-stairs at a certain hour, which she kept to as if it had been
of the utmost importance, although it was of no importance at all: she
took just so much good wine, so many cups of tea. Her repasts were as
regular as clockwork--never too late, never too ea