an equal fervour. Her father's house--her own opening and brilliant
prospects--her numerous family connexions and "troops of friends,"--
she had deserted all for him, in her generous confidence in his
future kindness. "His people had become her people, and his God, her
God!" She had fondly expected that his society would atone for every
loss, and compensate every sacrifice; that in the retirements she
shared with him, he would devote some part of his time to the
improvement of her mind, and the development of her character, and
that in return for her self devotion, he would cheerfully grant
her his confidence and affection. But there--"there where she had
garnered up her heart,"--she was doomed to bear the bitterest
disappointment. She found herself, on awaking from her early dream
of unqualified mutual affection, treated with negligence, and at
times with unkindness, and though gleams of his former tenderness
would sometimes break through the sullen darkness of his present
disposition, he continually manifested towards both her child and
herself, a discontented and peevish sternness, which wounded her
deeply, and filled her with inquietude. She retained, however, too
deep a veneration for her husband, too strong a sense of his
superiority, to permit her to resent, by the most trifling show of
displeasure, the alteration in his conduct. She forbore to indulge
even in the

"Silence that chides, and woundings of the eye."

Helen's was no common character. Young, gentle, timid as she was,
the texture of her mind was framed of "sterner stuff;" and she
nourished an intensity of wife-like devotion and endurance, which no
unkindness could tire, and a fixedness of resolve, and high sense of
moral rectitude, which no meaner feeling had yet obtained the power