"What question?" inquired Mrs. Markland; and, as she lifted her
eyes, he saw that they were dim with tears.

"What troubles you, dear?" he asked, tenderly.

Mrs. Markland forced a smile, as she replied, "Why should I be
troubled? Have I not every good gift the heart can desire?"

"And yet, Agnes, your eyes are full of tears."

"Are they?" A light shone through their watery vail. "Only an April
shadow, Edward, that is quickly lost in April sunshine. But your
question is not so easily answered."

"I ought to be perfectly happy here; nothing seems wanting. Yet my
spirit is like a aged bird that flutters against its prison-bars."

"Oh, no, Edward; not so bad as that," replied Mrs. Markland. "You
speak in hyperbole. This lovely place, which everywhere shows the
impress of your hand, is not a prison. Call it rather, a paradise."

"A paradise I sought to make it. But I am content no longer to be an
idle lingerer among its pleasant groves; for I have ceased to feel
the inspiration of its loveliness."

Mrs. Markland made no answer. After a silence of some minutes, her
husband said, with a slight hesitation in his voice, as if uncertain
as to the effect of his words--

"I have for some time felt a strong desire to visit Europe."

The colour receded from Mrs. Markland's face; and there was a look
in her eyes that her husband did not quite understand, as they
rested steadily in his.

"I have the means and the leisure," he added, "and the tour would
not only be one of pleasure, but profit."

"True," said his wife, and, then her, face was bent down so low that
he could not see, its expression for the shadows by which it was
partially concealed.

"We would both enjoy the trip exceedingly."

"Both! You did not think of taking me?"

"Why, Aggy, dear!--as if I could dream for a moment of any pleasure
in which you had not a share!"

So earnestly and tenderly was this said, that Mrs. Markland felt a
thrill of joy tremble over her heart-strings. And yet, for all, she
could not keep back the overflowing tears, but hid her face, to
conceal them, on her husband's bosom.

Her true feelings Mr. Markland did not read: and often, as he mused
on what appeared singular in her manner that evening, he was puzzled
to comprehend its meaning. Nor had his vision ever penetrated deep
enough to see all that was in her heart.

CHAPTER IV.

THE memory of what passed between Mr. and Mrs. Markland remained
distinct enough in