Forgive me, child, and try to bear your disappointments as I have
learned to bear mine."

Effie bent suddenly, saying, with a look of anguish, "Do you regret that
I am your wife, Sir?"

"Heaven knows I do, for I cannot make you happy," I answered,
mournfully.

"Let me go away where I can never grieve or trouble you again! I will,--
indeed, I will,--for anything is easier to bear than this. Oh, Jean, why
did you leave me when you went?"--and with that despairing cry Effie
stretched her arms into the empty air, as if seeking that lost friend.

My anger melted, and I tried to soothe her, saying gently, as I laid her
tear-wet cheek to mine,--

"My child, death alone must part us two. We will be patient with each
other, and so may learn to be happy yet."

A long silence fell upon us both. My thoughts were busy with the thought
of what a different home mine might have been, if Agnes had been true;
and Effie--God only knows how sharp a conflict passed in that young
heart! I could not guess it till the bitter sequel of that hour came.

A timid hand upon my own aroused me, and, looking down, I met such an
altered face, it touched me like a mute reproach. All the passion bad
died out, and a great patience seemed to have arisen there. It looked so
meek and wan, I bent and kissed it; but no smile answered me as Effie
humbly said,--