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brasses bright as ready wit, and like Narcissus in the stream, I half fell in love with myself in the polished mahogany. From whence then came the cloud to shade this happy picture? I was jealous. Not of women, for my husband not only professed to love me, but treated me with remarked attention in the society of others; and often when I saw married men display their gallantry to any but their wives, I felt proud of those preferring attentions, which Edward directly, but without display, tendered me. My jealousy, and I write it with half a blush, was of books. Edward was becoming an ambitious lawyer. His singleness of character and clearness of intellect gained him unexpected friends, and the strongest efforts of his mind were directed to eminence in his profession. Gradually, book by book was brought from the office. Blackstone was on one window-seat, Coke upon Littleton on another, and Chitty's Pleadings lum

bered the well-dusted mantelpicce. An instinctive regard and respect for my feelings prevented his passing his evenings abroad; but he read and read, while I silently pursued my sewing, until at last the heavy whitish looking volumes were laid on the breakfast or tea-table, beside the cup of coffee, which was often allowed to cool before it was tasted. He no longer asked me for a song at evening; and when I found my voice unheard by him, I shut the harpsichord in disgust. Our sunset walk was often forgotten; and when I sometimes said, “Come, Edward, I am ready;” he answered, “Yes, dear, directly—just let me finish this paragraph.” The paragraph might be finished, but I, sitting in silence, felt a languor steal over me; and when in a half hour he closed his book, and said briefly, “What—are you waiting? Let us go,” the walk seemed heavy, and the twilight sad. Perhaps, had I rallied him, he might have perceived that he was trying a dangerous, though unintentional experiment with a devoted heart; or had I seriously opened my feelings, he would probably have understood them; but I was ashamed, and tried to think that I was unreasonable, and he in the performance of his duty. I remembered that it was for my subsistence he toiled, and lingered through even the midnight hour. But with a feeling of unconquerable diffi dence in the expression of my thoughts, I grew reserved. My step was slow and careful, or quick and agitated, and I sometimes said cutting things in the impatience of my spirit. He was all truth and openness, and occasionally looked perplexed at my manner. “I should think you were unhappy,” said he one day to me, after he had been studying a horrid looking, parchment-covered book, at the breakfast-table, “if I did not see every thing around you appearing so cheerful and comfortable. There never was such a sweet home as ours.” My eyes filled with tears, but I hid them and was silent. “Clarissa,” said he, “you look thin, and now I think of it I am afraid your appetite is not

good. Those nice cakes, did you eat some this morning?” “We had toast for breakfast,” I replied; before I could say more, he was absorbed in his book. I took my sewing, that I might be with him the half hour before he went out. Just at this period a little boy who lived opposite, and who was in the habit of visiting us frequently, came in, and began his customary prattle. “Oh, Mr. Packard,” said little John, running to him, “let me see that book.” “What for,” said my husband, keeping his finger on a paragraph. “Why, because,” said the rogue, “aunt Clara (the name he always gave me), aunt Clara got angry with it yesterday.” “Angry, my boy; how so?” said he. “Why, sir, after you had done sipping your coffee, with the big book by your plate, and took your hat and walked out like a judge, she went to gather the cups to wash, and when she came

to the big white book by your cup she dashed it down on a chair, and said, ‘I hate you!' and looked as if she was going to cry.” Edward leaned his head a moment over the chair on which he sat, and mused. I sewed as if life hung on my needle. “Clarissa,” he said, at length, with a sweet earnest voice and look, taking my hands in his, “I know now what is the matter with you. I have been to blame, dearest, in not consulting more affectionately the feelings of my own wife. It was not enough, it ought not to be enough for me, to have given you comforts and luxuries; you require sympathy. You have been struggling with the wants of your heart. I wish I had understood them before. As for this book,” said he, playfully, “I cannot “hate it,” since it has given me such a revelation of my duty.” From that period his deportment at home had a perpetual view to my happiness and improvement. He brought books to read to me, calculated to interest while they elevated my literary taste. He referred to me for opinions,

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