that does not come from Heaven, that does
not look to Heaven for its perfection, cannot
raise, cannot purify the heart—it is a restless
wind that stirs the troubled soul, and will
not let it be at peace—it is unquiet and
ingenious as self-torture. So it was with
Helen Irwin ; between her and her happiness
came a shadow, the phantom of one who had
ceased to be.

The picture of the first Lady Irwin hung
in the drawing-room, and she would sit and
gaze at it until the canvas seemed to glow,
and the sweet thoughtful face to live, smiling
down upon her in secure triumph. She
tortured herself by imagining the tenderness
with which those large gray eyes had hung
upon her husband, the loving words which
those lips had uttered. If at any time his
eyes dwelt on the picture, or if he involuntarily
compared the features of his son with
it, she could hardly control her impatience ;
and she would break from the boy in the
midst of his caresses, if the resemblance
he bore to his mother happened to strike
her.

So time passed till a little girl was born to
her, and the disquiet of her soul was hushed
for awhile ; the infant stole the trouble from
its mother's heart, and wakened in her bosom
strange yearnings for something better and
purer than she had yet known. The great
mystery of that new life, made so dear by
suffering, and still so dependent on her,
stirred her to meditation on the great mystery
of our being—the weakness incidental to her
condition, while it humbled her pride, softened
her heart to receive with meekness the
only doctrine that can explain it. But in a
few months the frail infant sickened and died.
No tear wetted the mother's cheek, she
endured in silence the affliction to which she
would not submit, impiously arraigning the
Hand that sent it, and the vague conception
of religious truth which she had begun to
entertain vanished, and darkness closed in
upon her soul.

She had her child buried in a quiet corner
of the churchyard, away from the vault
where Lady Irwin lay, and thither she would
wander at lonely hours, and sit on the little
mound with dry eyes and an angry heart.
The harebells that grew spontaneously about
it she plucked and bore away, but she
hung no garlands on the stone and planted
no flowers over the place of her infant's
rest.

Her studies, which she had rather neglected
during the little one's life, she now resumed
with increased ardour, seeking distraction for
her aching heart in mental exercise. Her
husband, aware that all was not as it should
be, though far from apprehending the true
nature of the grief of which she never spoke,
willingly lent her his aid, hoping that the
pursuits which yielded him such satisfaction
would act with medicinal virtue upon her.
Her mind thus acquired strength but her
heart did not keep pace with its progress ;
the circle of her affections narrowed, no
interchange of friendly sympathies with
her equals drew her from herself, no tender
acts of personal charity to the poor about her
softened her sorrow. She became cold and
stately, and proud of her secret grief
unprofaned by common pity and unlike that of
any other.

A young woman in the village, who had
been married shortly after Lady Irwin's
arrival at Swallowfield, lost her baby soon
after the death of Helen's daughter. She was
a simple creature, and the affliction lay sore
upon her, for her husband was often rough,
sometimes unkind to her, and, being from a
distant part of the country, she had few
friends in the village. Many a summer
evening did she spend in the churchyard, and
many a tasteful garland of wild flowers did
she weave to dress her baby's grave. More
than once Lady Irwin passed her in the
gloaming, but her heart never softened with
a feeling of kindred sorrow ; she rather
despised the grief which could find relief in
such childish demonstrations, and the poor
woman—with the one thing that loved her
laid in the dust, with clothes barely sufficient
to cover her, and a cold hearth at home—was
richer and happier than the beautiful lady
whose costly robes brushed her as she
passed, for, in the depth of her desolation,
she could look to One, who had promised
to bear her sorrow, in the light of whose
presence she might hope to be reunited to
her darling.

The world, as it is called, occupied a due
share of Lady Irwin's time and attention :
her tastes inclined her to magnificence, her
beauty and her talents to display, while her
husband's fortune justified her in assuming a
leading position in society. No parties were
more brilliant, no dinners better appointed
than hers. Science, literature, and art were
duly honoured at her house, her husband was
an accomplished conversationalist, and she
herself possessed the rarer virtue of being an
excellent listener. Thus her house was the
resort of men of the highest intellectual
attainments in town, and when at Swallowfield
she was rarely without visitors whose
names were known and honoured.

But though Lady Irwin had many admirers
she had no friends ; she asked no sympathy,
and had none to give—none, at least, for the
sorrows and joys of daily life—she was self-
contained. In a man such a character is hard
and sad—how much harder, how much
sadder, in a woman, whose vocation it is to
temper the stern realities of life, who, to
be strong, must have some touch of weakness,
who, if by too easy credulity, she opened
the way to sin and death, should also point
the road to life by faith perfected in the sense
of her infirmity.

Aware of the violence of her passions, and
falsely believing that unsubdued vigour of