vening.

We need not present a scene from the sixth, the seventh, or even the
twentieth day of Madeline's married life. All moved on with a kind
of even tenor. Order--we might almost say, mercantile order--reigned
throughout the household. And yet, shadows were filling more and
more heavily over the young wife's feelings. To be loved, was an
element of her existence--to be loved with expression. But,
expressive fondness was not one of the cold, dignified Mr. Leslie's
weaknesses. He loved Madeline--as much as he was capable of loving
anything out of himself. And he had given her the highest possible
evidence of this love, by making her his wife.--What more could she
ask? It never occurred to his unsentimental thought, that words and
acts of endearment were absolutely essential to her happiness. That
her world of interest was a world of affections, and that without
his companionship in this world, her heart would feel an aching
void.

Who will wonder that, as weeks and months went by, shadows were more
apparent on the sunny face of Madeline? Yet, such shadows, when they
became visible to casual eyes, did excite wonder. What was there to
break the play of sunshine on her countenance?

"The more some people have, the more dissatisfied they are,"
remarked one superficial observer to another, in reply to some
communication touching Mrs. Leslie's want of spirits.

"Yes," was answered. "Nothing but _real_ trouble ever brings such
persons to their senses."

Ah! Is not heart-trouble the most real of all with which we are
visited? There comes to it, so rarely, a balm of healing. To those
external evils which merely affect the personal comfort, the mind
quickly accommodates itself. We may find happiness in either
prosperity or adversity. But, what true happiness is there for a
loving heart, if, from the only source of reciprocation, there is
but an imperfect response? A strong mind may accommodate itself, in
the exercise of a firm religious philosophy, to even these
circumstances, and like the wisely discriminating bee, extract honey
from even the most unpromising flower. But, it is hard--nay, almost
impossible--for one like Madeline, reared as she was in so warm an
atmosphere of love, to fall back upon and find a sustaining power,
in such a philosophy. Her spirit first must droop. There must be a
passing through the fire, with painful purification. Alas! How many
perish in the ordeal!--How many gentle, loving ones, unequall