‘In haste.’  My hands trembled so that I could with difficulty break the seal.  The contents were to the effect that my husband had been lying for several days at one of the hotels there, very ill, but now past the crisis of his disease, and thought by the physician to be out of danger.  The writer urged me, from my husband, to come on immediately.  In eight hours from the time I received that letter, I was in New York.  Alas! it was too late; the disease had returned with double violence, and snapped the feeble thread of life.  I never saw my husband’s living face again.”

The self-possession of Mrs. Cleaveland, at this part of her narrative, gave way.  Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed violently, while the tears came trickling through her fingers.

“My dear Laura,” she resumed, after the lapse of many minutes, looking up as she spoke, with a clear eye, and a sober, but placid countenance, “it is for your sake that I have turned my gaze resolutely back.  May the painful history I have given you make a deep impression upon your heart; let it warn you of the sunken rock upon which my bark foundered.  Avoid carefully, religiously avoid setting yourself in opposition to your husband; should he prove unreasonable or arbitrary, nothing is to be gained, and every thing lost by contention.  By gentleness, by forbearance, by even suffering wrong at times, you will be able to win him over to a better spirit:  an opposite course will as assuredly put thorns in your pillow as you adopt it.  Look at the unhappy condition of the friends you have named; their husbands are, in their eyes, exacting, domineering tyrants.  But this need not be.  Let them act truly the woman’s part.  Let them not oppose, but yield, and they will find that their present tyrants’ will become their lovers.  Above all, never, under any circumstances, either jestingly or in earnest, say ‘I will,’ when you are opposed.  That declaration is never made without its robbing the wife of a portion of her husband’s confidence and love; its utterance has dimmed the fire upon many a smiling hearth-stone.”

Laura could not reply; the relation of her aunt had deeply shocked her feelings.  But the words she had uttered sank into her heart; and when her trial came—­when she was tempted to set her will in opposition to her husband’s, and resolutely to contend for what she deemed right, a thought of Mrs. Cleaveland’s story would put a seal upon her lips.  It was well.  The character of Henry Armour too nearly resembled that of Mr. Cleaveland:  he could illy have brooked a wife’s opposition; but her tenderness, her forbearance, her devoted love, bound her to him with cords that drew closer and closer each revolving year.  She never opposed him further than to express a difference of opinion when such a difference existed, and its utterance was deemed useful; and she carefully avoided, on all occasions, the doing of any thing of which he in the smallest degree disapproved.  The consequence was, that