relief by the light--altogether it was a page of
human life, richly illuminated beyond the art of painter, sculptor, or
poet. Silence, solitude, night and winter lent a final touch of majesty
to complete the simplicity and sublimity of this exquisite effect of
nature's contriving. Married life is full of these sacred hours, which
perhaps owe their indefinable charm to some vague memory of a better
world. A divine radiance surely shines upon them, the destined
compensation for some portion of earth's sorrows, the solace which
enables man to accept life. We seem to behold a vision of an enchanted
universe, the great conception of its system widens out before our eyes,
and social life pleads for its laws by bidding us look to the future.

Yet in spite of the tender glances that Helene gave Abel and Moina after
a fresh outburst of merriment; in spite of the look of gladness in
her transparent face whenever she stole a glance at her father, a deep
melancholy pervaded her gestures, her attitude, and more than all, her
eyes veiled by their long lashes. Those white, strong hands, through
which the light passed, tinting them with a diaphanous, almost fluid
red--those hands were trembling. Once only did the eyes of the mother
and daughter clash without shrinking, and the two women read each
other's thoughts in a look, cold, wan, and respectful on Helene's part,
sombre and threatening on her mother's. At once Helene's eyes were
lowered to her work, she plied her needle swiftly, and it was long
before she raised her head, bowed as it seemed by a weight of thought
too heavy to bear. Was the Marquise over harsh with this one of her
children? Did she think this harshness needful? Was she jealous of
Helene's beauty?--She might still hope to rival Helene, but only by the
magic arts of the toilette. Or again, had her daughter, like many a girl
who reaches the clairvoyant age, read the secrets which this wife (to
all appearance so religiously faithful in the fulfilment of her duties)
believed to be buried in her own heart as deeply as in a grave?

Helene had reached an age when purity of soul inclines to pass
over-rigid judgments. A certain order of mind is apt to exaggerate
transgression into crime; imagination reacts upon conscience, and a
young girl is a hard judge because she magnifies the seriousness of the
offence. Helene seemed to think herself worthy of no one. Perhaps
there was a secret in her past life, perhaps something had ha