were not immortal, how dreary even this beautiful world would seem, yet
being so, I can but look forward to another, when the shackles of this
life will fall away."

It was a relief to speak aloud. The sound of her own voice came back
like the sympathy she dared to claim only of the wind and the waters,
that flowed on with their eternal rush of sound, like the years of life
that Mabel was mourning over. She stood upon the shore, stately and
motionless, her eyes full of trouble, her lips tremulous with impulsive
words that betrayed a soul at once ardent and pure. The wind rose around
her, and seizing upon her shawl swept it in picturesque folds about her
person, half drowning her voice, or she would not have dared to give her
thoughts this bold utterance.

It was this picturesque attitude which had attracted the attention of
her husband in the library, and that moment he resolved to join her on
the shore.

As if this resolve had been expressed to her in words, a feeling of
unrest seized upon Mabel, and long before the old man was ready to come
forth, she was walking rapidly across the brow of a hill that bounded
the valley southward, keeping along the bank, but concealed by the
undergrowth.

She paused upon a rocky cliff that broke the hill side, breathing more
freely as if conscious that she had escaped some unwelcome intrusion. A
boat upon the river drew her attention, and she saw within it her son
and Lina floating pleasantly down the stream together.

"How happy and how young they are!" she said with a gush of gentle
affection. "No cares--no broken hopes--no wishes unexpressed--no
_secrets_; oh! in this lies the great happiness of existence. Until he
has a secret to keep, man is, indeed, next to the angels."

Mabel sat down upon a fallen tree, covered with a drapery of pale green
moss. She watched the boat in a sort of dream, as it drifted toward her.
How much of the suffering she endured might yet be saved to the young
persons it contained! Was not that an object worth living and enduring
for? Might she not renew her youth in them?

Renew her youth? What need was there of that? In all her existence had
she ever been so full of life--so vigorous of mind--so capable of the
highest enjoyment? In the very prime and glory of all her
faculties--wise in experience--strong from many a silent heart-struggle,
what could she gain by a return of youth? Nothing! surely nothing! Yet
she watched those two young persons wit