ound the man's
neck the white badge that will save him from the massacre (of St.
Bartholomew)--he, clasping her the while, gently puts it aside--not
stern, but smiling. That quiet, tender smile, firmer than any frown,
will, you feel sure, soon control the woman's anguish, so that she will
sob out--any faithful woman would--"Go, die! Dearer to me than even
thyself are thy honour and thy duty!"

When I saw this noble picture, it touched to the core this old heart of
mine--for the painter, in that rare expression, might have caught
John's. Just as in a few crises of his life I have seen it, and
especially in this one, when he first told to his wife that
determination which he had slowly come to--that it was both right and
expedient for us to quit Longfield, our happy home for so many years,
of which the mother loved every flower in the garden, every nook and
stone in the walls.

"Leave Longfield!" she repeated again, with a bitter sigh.

"Leave Longfield!" echoed the children, first the youngest, then the
eldest, but rather in curiosity than regret. Edwin's keen, bright eyes
were just lifted from his book, and fell again; he was not a lad of
much speech, or much demonstration of any kind.

"Boys, come and let us talk over the matter."

They came at once and joined in the circle; respectfully, yet with
entire freedom, they looked towards their father--these, the sons of
his youth, to whom he had been from their birth, not only parent and
head, but companion, guide, and familiar friend. They honoured him,
they trusted him, they loved him; not, perhaps, in the exact way that
they loved their mother; for it often seems Nature's own ordinance,
that a mother's influence should be strongest over her sons, while the
father's is greatest over his daughters. But even a stranger could not
glance from each to each of those attentive faces, so different, yet
with a curious "family look" running through them all, without seeing
in what deep, reverent affection, such as naturally takes the place of
childish fondness, these youths held their father.

"Yes, I am afraid, after much serious thought on the matter, and much
consultation with your mother here,--that we ought to leave Longfield."

"So I think," said Mistress Maud, from her footstool; which putting
forward of her important opinion shook us all from gravity to
merriment, that compelled even Mrs. Halifax to join. Then, laying
aside her work, and with it the saddened