“I have a willing heart, Agnes,—­I have ready hands—­but the heart is wearied of its own fruitless desires, and the hands hang down in idleness.  What shall I do?  The work in which I have found so much delight for years, is completed; and now the restless mind springs away from this lovely Eden, and pines for new fields in which to display its powers.  Here I fondly hoped to spend the remainder of my life—­contented—­happy.  The idea was a dreamy illusion.  Daily is this seen in clear light.  I reprove myself; I chide the folly, as I call it; but, all in vain.  Beauty for me, has faded from the landscape, and the air is no longer balmy with odours.  The birds sing for my ears no more; I hear not, as of old, the wind spirits whispering to each other in the tree tops.  Dear Agnes!—­wife of my heart—­what does it mean?”

An answer was on the lip of Mrs. Markland, but words so unlooked for, swelled, suddenly, the wave of emotion in her heart, and she could not speak.  A few moments her hand trembled on the arm of her husband.  Then it was softly removed, and without a word, she passed into the house, and going to her own room, shut the door, and sat down in the darkness to commune with her spirit.  And first, there came a gush of tears.  These were for herself.  A shadow had suddenly fallen upon the lovely home where she had hoped to spend all the days of her life—­a shadow from a storm-boding cloud.  Even from the beginning of their wedded life, she had marked in her husband a defect of character, which, gaining strength, had led to his giving up business, and their retirement to the country.  That defect was the common one, appertaining to all, a looking away from the present into the future for the means of enjoyment.  In all the years of his earnest devotion to business, Mr. Markland had kept his eye steadily fixed upon the object now so completely attained; and much of present enjoyment had been lost in the eager looking forward for this coveted time.  And now, that more than all his fondest anticipations were realized, only for a brief period did he hold to his lips the cup full of anticipated delight.  Already his hand felt the impulse that moved him to pour its crystal waters upon the ground.

Mrs. Markland’s clear appreciation of her husband’s character was but a prophecy of the future.  She saw that Woodbine Lodge—­now grown into her affections, and where she hoped to live and die—­even if it did not pass from their possession—­bartered for some glittering toy—­could not remain their permanent home.  For this flowed her first tears; and these, as we have said, were for herself.  But her mind soon regained its serenity; and from herself, her thoughts turned to her husband.  She was unselfish enough not only to be able to realize something of his state of mind, but to sympathize with him, and pity his inability to find contentment in the actual.  This state of mind she regarded as a disease, and love prompted all self-denial for his sake.