there was such a being in the world. For one moment I was tempted to throw myself on my knees and implore him to cast away his chilling, his cruel reserve, but the nursemaid was in the room, and I did not wish to proclaim to the world that my husband did not love me. Yes, this is the hateful truth, Amy; my husband does not love me, and yet I am his wife. Good God, I am his lawful wedded wife, and he does not love me better than all the world beside; and I have written it calmly as you see, and I am alive, and I have not dashed my head against the wall; but I am bearing this quietly, bravely, pretending not to see it, not to know it, turning myself into stone; putting on the mask of hypocrisy, making believe happy, playing as I did when I was a little girl that I am a rich, fine, gay lady, — ha! ha! how nicely I cheat them all. I tell you, Amy, because if my heart that sometimes comes near bursting should actually break, (such things have been,) you may bear witness that I had one.

Sweet Willy! he has just come softly up to me and kissed my hand, and says, "Your hand is cold, mother, leave off and dance and sing with me." What shall I sing? "There was a maid in Bedlam?" That is a sad

was.

song; oh, no, it is not so very sad, for "she knew that her love loved her." Do n't think I am crazy, Amy, I am as rational as ever I I try to amuse myself, and get rid of my uncomfortable feelings. For a while I enjoyed dancing, and went to every dance to which I was invited; but, as my husband gave up going, I did not like it. I shrink from attentions from gentlemen when he is not present.

But I have lately found an amusement that takes up my thoughts safely. It is the game of whist. I have become quite an adept at it. I belong to a party which we joined some time ago. There is a fusty old bachelor who is my regular opponent, and I have never played with him without beating him. I laugh at him unmercifully about it; I tease him in every way I can devise, just for the sport of seeing the contest between his politeness and his rage. I always have the cards against him; so sure as he comes out with an ace and king, I trump him; and if he has four trumps, I have five. The other night, when he thought he was sure of one trick, and I trumped it, rage conquered, and he exclaimed, "The deuse must help Mrs. Roberts; but I ask pardon-it is your play, ma'am."

"Of whom did you ask pardon, Mr. Bruin, of me or of that respectable person whose name ought not to be so hastily spoken?" Upon this he threw down his cards, and said either of us were welcome to his cards. I laughed heartily at him, and proposed giving him five the next game, which he took up with; and it did seem as if there was some witchery in the business, for we beat him in one hand. "Thanks to the five we gave you, Mr. Bruin," I said, "or you would have been beaten a love game." "Thank my stars," he said, "I am free of all love games; one is sure to lose in them."

"Where one is so sure of being beaten, it is most prudent, Mr. Bruin, not to play. I advise you to bring your knitting-work the next time you come, and perhaps you will be kind enough to sit behind me, and advise me how to play my cards." Some one told me that after I left the room, he put his arms a-kimbo, and said, as he looked after me, "Well, I had rather bean old bachelor to the end of time, than have to tame such a shrew as that."

But, ah! the loneliness, the unspeakable loneliness I feel, after I return from an evening passed in this way, to my own home. My

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child is asleep, my husband has retired for the night; no one is up but the housekeeper, who tries to tread softly for fear of disturbing old Mr. Roberts, whose days draw very fast to a close. Parrot-like in every thing, she always asks me exactly the same question which is, "Do you wish for anything?" and when I answer, No," retires. Once, however, she proved her humanity by saying something else. To her question instead of saying, "No," I answered "Yes." "What ma'am?" she replied. "To die," I answered, and with a tone that was frightful even to my own ears. Instead of leaving me she looked at me kindly; yes, Amy, kindly, if you will believe it, and said to me, "Life is the gift of a good God, and not to be despised, or wickedly thrown away; but perhaps, dear, you are ill; let me take care of you." Had the marble image of Minerva that stood by her in the entry, spoken words of wisdom to me, and extended arms of love and pity towards me, I should not have been more surprised, more moved. I burst into tears. "Oh no! no!" I said, "I am only heart sick;" and hurried to my chamber; but I will never laugh at her again. There is some terrible thing on my husband's mind; and I, who should be his

bosom friend, know nothing of it; and oh! I dare not ask him, he is so cold, so silent, so reserved. Amy! dear Amy! I am so lost, so bewildered, so unhappy! Oh, if I could but see you! my head is so confused, and my heart is so very heavy. Write to me! Oh, if you could but come to know how I love you.

me!

You

FANNY ROBERTS.

Edward and Amy were both deeply moved at reading Fanny's letter. "We are their nearest and dearest friends," said Amy; "I wish we could go to them; we might do them good. Poor Fanny! how my heart aches for her."

"So does mine, Amy; but you know that it is out of the question for you to go at present. You must write to Fanny, and tell her that the self-sacrificing life of a mother has already commenced with you, and that if all is well, we will certainly come to New York in the spring." Edward again relapsed into an unusual silence.

"Dear Edward!" said his wife," you have something on your mind; your brow looks troubled; what is it.

"Only anxiety about business, Amy. How