Madge is unbounded in her admiration of your friend:  he renews, at your solicitation, his visit:  he proves kinder than ever; and you grow ashamed of your distrust.

Madge is not learned in the arts of a city life; the accomplishments of a man-of-the world are almost new to her; she listens with eagerness to Dalton’s graphic stories of foreign fetes and luxury; she is charmed with his clear, bold voice, and with his manly execution of little operatic airs.

——­She is beautiful,—­that wife who has made your heart whole by its division,—­fearfully beautiful!  And she is not cold, or impassive:  her heart, though fond and earnest, is yet human;—­we are all human.  The accomplishments and graces of the world must needs take hold upon her fancy.  And a fear creeps over you that you dare not whisper,—­that those graces may cast into the shade your own yearning and silent tenderness.

But this is a selfish fear, that you think you have no right to cherish.  She takes pleasure in the society of Dalton,—­what right have you to say her—­nay?  His character indeed is not altogether such as you could wish; but will it not be selfish to tell her even this?  Will it not be even worse, and show taint of a lurking suspicion, which you know would wound her grievously?  You struggle with your distrust by meeting him more kindly than ever; yet at times there will steal over you a sadness, which that dear Madge detects, and sorrowing in her turn, tries to draw away from you by the touching kindness of sympathy.  Her look and manner kill all your doubt; and you show that it is gone, and piously conceal the cause by welcoming in gayer tones than ever the man who has fostered it by his presence.

Business calls you away to a great distance from home:  it is the first long parting of your real manhood.  And can suspicion, or a fear, lurk amid those tearful embraces?  Not one,—­thank God,—­not one!

Your letters, frequent and earnest, bespeak your increased devotion; and the embraces you bid her give to the sweet ones of your little flock, tell of the calmness and sufficiency of your love.  Her letters too are running over with affection;—­what though she mentions the frequent visits of Dalton, and tells stories of his kindness and attachment?  You feel safe in her strength; and yet—­yet there is a brooding terror, that rises out of your knowledge of Dalton’s character.

And can you tell her this; can you stab her fondness, now that you are away, with even a hint of what would crush her delicate nature?

What you know to be love, and what you fancy to be duty, struggle long; but love conquers.  And with sweet trust in her, and double trust in God, you await your return.  That return will be speedier than you think.

You receive one day a letter:  it is addressed in the hand of a friend, who is often at the cottage, but who has rarely written to you.  What can have tempted him now?  Has any harm come near your home?  No wonder your hands tremble at the opening of that sheet; no wonder that your eyes run like lightning over the hurried lines.  Yet there is little in them, very little.  The hand is stout and fair.  It is a calm letter, a friendly letter; but it is short, terribly short.  It bids you come home—­“at once!”