der to consent to carry it out.

The woman who is the subject of the following narrative was in this
position. She had lived through almost everything that is to be found in
life. She had been beautiful in her youth, and had enjoyed all the
triumphs of beauty; had been intoxicated with flattery, and triumphant in
conquest, and mad with jealousy and the bitterness of defeat when it
became evident that her day was over. She had never been a bad woman, or
false, or unkind; but she had thrown herself with all her heart into
those different stages of being, and had suffered as much as she enjoyed,
according to the unfailing usage of life. Many a day during these storms
and victories, when things went against her, when delights did not
satisfy her, she had thrown out a cry into the wide air of the universe
and wished to die. And then she had come to the higher table-land of
life, and had borne all the spites of fortune,--had been poor and rich,
and happy and sorrowful; had lost and won a hundred times over; had sat
at feasts, and kneeled by deathbeds, and followed her best-beloved to the
grave, often, often crying out to God above to liberate her, to make an
end of her anguish, for that her strength was exhausted and she could
bear no more. But she had borne it and lived through all; and now had
arrived at a time when all strong sensations are over, when the soul is
no longer either triumphant or miserable, and when life itself, and
comfort and ease, and the warmth of the sun, and of the fireside, and the
mild beauty of home were enough for her, and she required no more. That
is, she required very little more, a useful routine of hours and rules, a
play of reflected emotion, a pleasant exercise of faculty, making her
feel herself still capable of the best things in life--of interest in her
fellow-creatures, kindness to them, and a little gentle intellectual
occupation, with books and men around. She had not forgotten anything in
her life,--not the excitements and delights of her beauty, nor love, nor
grief, nor the higher levels she had touched in her day. She did not
forget the dark day when her first-born was laid in the grave, nor that
triumphant and brilliant climax of her life when every one pointed to her
as the mother of a hero. All these things were like pictures hung in the
secret chambers of her mind, to which she could go back in silent
moments, in the twilight seated by the fire, or in the balmy afternoon,
when lan