her, yet gives her the power to be more truly herself than ever before.
The startled joy in them; the marvel at a mystery not yet understood;
the passionate tenderness; and yet the almost divine compassion for the
unrestrained violence of feeling, which had flung the man to his knees,
and driven him to the haven of her breast; the yearning to soothe, and
give, and content;--all these were blended into a look of such
exquisite sweetness, that it brought tears to the eyes of the beholder.

The woman was seated on a broad marble parapet. She looked straight
before her. Her knees came well forward, and the long curve of the
train of her black gown filled the foreground on the right. On the
left, slightly to one side of her, knelt a man, a tall slight figure in
evening dress, his arms thrown forward around her waist; his face
completely hidden in the soft lace at her bosom; only the back of his
sleek dark head, visible. And yet the whole figure denoted a passion of
tense emotion. She had gathered him to her with what you knew must have
been an exquisite gesture, combining the utter self-surrender of the
woman, with the tender throb of maternal solicitude; and now her hands
were clasped behind his head, holding him closely to her. Not a word
was being spoken. The hidden face was obviously silent; and her firm
lips above his dark head were folded in a line of calm self-control;
though about them hovered the dawning of a smile of bliss ineffable.

A crimson rambler rose climbing some woodwork faintly indicated on the
left, and hanging in a glowing mass from the top left-hand corner,
supplied the only vivid colour in the picture.

But, from taking in these minor details, the eye returned to that calm
tender face, alight with love; to those strong capable hands, now
learning for the first time to put forth the protective passion of a
woman's tenderness; and the mind whispered the only possible name for
that picture: The Wife.

Jane gazed at it long, in silence. Had Garth's little bear been
anything less solid than Early Victorian brass; it must have bent and
broken under the strong pressure of those clenched hands.

She could not doubt, for a moment, that she looked upon herself; but,
oh, merciful heavens! how unlike the reflected self of her own mirror!
Once or twice as she looked, her mind refused to work, and she simply
gazed blankly at the minor details of the picture. But then again, the
expression of the grey eyes drew