Reason! there was not the least particle of reason in my whole composition; this was a wild, impulsive act, performed without the least thought for the probable consequences, and I now stood gazing on the wreck I had made, in silent bewilderment.  My parents soon returned; and hurrying to the apartment with countenances of astonishment and fear, there realized a confirmation of the dreadful accounts they had been assailed with.  “And who was the author of all this mischief? Amy.”  My eyes drooped under the stern, reproving glances I encountered, and I crept about the house like a guilty thing—­fervently wishing for the bodily suffering I had brought upon the victim of my wild attempt, instead of the pain of mind with which I was tormented.

Days passed on, but the lapse of time was unheeded by me; my post was by the bedside of the sufferer—­my employment to anticipate his slightest wish, and yield to every humor.  As he grew better I read to him, sung to him, talked to him; and in return received the grateful glances of those expressive eyes, which followed me about whenever I moved from his side.  At length he could sit up in his apartment, and then walk slowly through the grounds, with the assistance of a heavy cane on one side and my arm on the other; till at last he was pronounced to be as well as other people; or, as Dr. Irwin expressed it, “as good as new.”  Your eyes are brightening up, Ella, in anticipation of a most sentimental love-tale; but I shall not gratify your desire of laughing at your grandmother’s folly; but shall only say, that before he left, I had promised, with the consent of my parents, to become Mrs. Arlington.  I was married at eighteen, and, strange to say, to one who appeared a realization of all my girlish fancies; he was noble-minded, warm-hearted, and almost as enthusiastic as myself—­with a sweetness of temper which I have never seen raffled, except by some act of injustice or cruelty.

But do not flatter yourself, Ella, that life glided on with me like the pages of a romance; I was obliged to lay aside a great many silly theories which I had indulged in, and come to plain reality much oftener than suited my inclination.  A perfect person is not to be found upon earth; when disposed to murmur at not meeting with the sacrifices you expect, ask yourself if you would be willing to make these sacrifices for another—­and then be not surprised that others are not more free from the dross of self-consideration than you are.  Also, do not suppose that it was my hair-brained performance at our first meeting which attracted my husband’s affections; no, often has the color mounted to my face at his reference to that scene, and his own impressions then.