A higher civility will reestablish in our customs a certain reverence which we have lost.  What to do with these brisk young men who break through all fences, and make themselves at home in every house?  I find out in an instant if my companion does not want me, and ropes cannot hold me when my welcome is gone.  One would think that the affinities would pronounce themselves with a surer reciprocity.

Here again, as so often, Nature delights to put us between extreme antagonisms, and our safety is in the skill with which we keep the diagonal line.  Solitude is impracticable, and society fatal.  We must keep our head in the one, and our hands in the other.  The conditions are met, if we keep our independence, yet do not lose our sympathy.  These wonderful horses need to be driven by fine hands.  We require such a solitude as shall hold us to its revelations when we are in the street and in palaces; for most men are cowed in society, and say good things to you in private, but will not stand to them in public.  But let us not be the victims of words.  Society and solitude are deceptive names.  It is not the circumstance of seeing more or fewer people, but the readiness of sympathy, that imports; and a sound mind will derive its principles from insight, with ever a purer ascent to the sufficient and absolute right, and will accept society as the natural element in which they are to be applied.

AKIN BY MARRIAGE.

[Continued.]

CHAPTER III

When little Helen was not far from nine years old, her mother, (as she had learned to call Mrs. Bugbee,) whose health for a long time had been failing, fell sick and took to her bed.  Sometimes, for a brief space, she would seem to mend a little; and a council of doctors, convened to consider her case,—­though each member differed from all the others touching the nature of her malady,—­unanimously declared she would ultimately recover.  But her disease, whatever it was, proved to be her mortal illness; for the very next night she came suddenly to her end.  Her loss was a heavy one, especially to her own household.  She had always been a quiet person, of rather pensive humor, whose native diffidence caused her to shrink from observation; and after Amelia’s death she was rarely seen abroad, except at meeting, on Sundays, or when she went to visit the poor, the sick, or the grief-stricken.  It was at home that her worth was most apparent; for plain domestic virtues, such as hers, seldom gain wide distinction.  Her children’s sorrow was deep and lasting, and the badge of mourning which her husband wore for many months after her death was a truthful symbol of unaffected grief.  From the beginning, he was warmly attached to his wife, whose affection for him was very great indeed.  It would have been strange if he had been unhappy, when she, who made his tastes her study, also made it the business of her life to please him.  Besides, his cheerful temper enabled him to make light of more grievous misfortunes than the getting of a loving wife and thrifty helpmeet ten years older than himself.