out how shallow were the waters of my belief.
He loved me so well, that even this shadowy
imagining and dread weakened his own faith.
He loosed his anchor from its firmest hold
in the haven of true rest, and so was more at
the mercy of the wind and waves, liable to
be wearily driven about and tossed.

All my influence—and I gradually grew to
have much–over my husband was injurious
to him—unhappy for him. It was of a
destructive kind for any woman to possess—
of a fiendish kind for any woman to wield.
He grew to fear my uncertain temper, my
scorn or sarcasm, expressed seldom perhaps
by words, but often by look and gesture, which
he read too much aright. I loved power
diabolically, because for its own sake. I felt
my power over him, and made him feel it too.

Our sojourn in the Highlands was, on the
whole, a happy one: looked back on from a
later time, it showed very fair and bright. I
would willingly have prolonged it, but I
fancied my husband began to show signs of
weariness at the close of a month. So we
went home.

                  CHAPTER III.

MY home was very beautiful. Harold's
thoughtful love had collected there, books,
birds, pictures, music, flowers; everything
he could think of that should help to
make my solitary morning hours pass away
swiftly and pleasantly. My heart would have
been very, very hard had it not been deeply
grateful in its first surprise. Our coming to
such a home could not be anything but happy.
I thought, when he planned and arranged all
these tilings, how many beautiful anticipations
of future happiness must have been
clustering and brightening round my dear
husband's heart.

Such reflections quite subdued me, filling
me with a strange pitying love for him. For
awhile I kept such a strict watch and ward over
my tongue and temper, ruled my rebellious
nature with such an iron hand, that everything
went smoothly and prosperously; I guarded
Harold's heart from the only thing that
would wound it; in cherishing his happiness
I found my own. But I had no real
and sufficient occupation; so much time and
nothing to do in it; such a superfluity of
unapplied power—such a lack of necessary
patience. I soon became conscious that
there was always a great aching void at my
heart. Where I thought to find sympathy
with every thought and emotion, a constant
stimulus to all aspiration and mental exertion,
I did not always find myself even
understood. After awhile my vague uneasiness
deepened into torturing longing and disquiet.

In my drawing-room I had found a splendid
piano. Harold had said he liked music.
I thought I had discovered both an occupation
and a motive for it, when I applied myself
heart and soul to the cultivation of my
musical power. The slightest expression of
a wish to take lessons placed the services of
a first-rate master at my disposal. I had the
taste of a real musician, and was already
more than ordinarily accomplished in the
art; now I studied root and branch, theory
and practice, throwing all my unapplied
energy into my endeavour. My zeal lasted
through a whole autumn and winter: I
wanted to surprise Harold by my performance,
so never let him hear my practice. I
employed myself in the composition of a
piece. I had attempted this before in the
long, lonely evenings often spent at the
school-room piano at the Stones. The theme
of this present effort was very wild and
fanciful; mournful in the beginning—more
mournful in the end—dying out into the
extreme silence of death. Midway between
beginning and end was a lively movement,
full of some great tumultuous joy.

I submitted my MS. to my master's perusal.
He played it through once or twice. I
interrupted him impatiently to show him an
ill-expressed meaning. When he had finished
he bowed and paid me some compliments,
showing me tears in his eyes; but I did not
listen or heed—I only wanted the use of his
knowledge, not the expression of his praise;
and so I somewhat haughtily gave him to
understand. He bowed again, and then
favoured me with some straightforward
criticisms that were really useful.

It was the London season; my husband
wished to see me do the honours of his
beautiful house. So we were to give a very large
party. It rather pleased me to be the centre
of attraction in a large circle, and yet I
despised myself for the pleasure it gave me.
In this, as in many things, I felt my two
natures at war.

This particular evening it was more pride
for my husband than any care for the opinion
formed of me, that determined me to appear
to the best possible advantage. I knew many
of his old friends and associates would be
present, and I wanted him to feel not only
not ashamed, but proud, of his wife.

In spite of everything incongruous in our
natures, I loved Harold passionately, even
when in my maddest moods I rendered him
scorn and unwomanly despising in lieu of
that wifely duty and loving gratitude he
might so justly claim from me—even then I
loved him. I never lost sight of this love—it
made a torture of many things which
indifference would have helped me to bear easily.
I had a passionate power of loving in my
nature—on whom else could I lavish it?

That night we were happy and gay; we
stood in the drawing-room together, waiting
our guests, and chatted merrily over the
fire. There was nothing to excite any of
the feeling which Harold did not comprehend
in me, so it slumbered a dead sleep,
and I was quietly content. I was not in the
least nervous about the reception or amusement
of our guests, though this was our first