are spoken, and even before they are quite clear to myself. Sometimes, when we are talking together, some subject comes up on which I do not care to express my opinion. Eleanor fixes her clear, penetrating eyes upon me, and drags my thought out into the light, just as a kingfisher pounces upon and pulls a fish out of the water. Had I anything to conceal, any secret, I should be afraid of her; and as it is, I do not like this invasion of my personal kingdom,—though my thoughts often acquire new strength and beauty from Eleanor's strong and vigorous language. Last evening, Mr. Lee, Eleanor, and myself were turning over the prints in a large portfolio. We paused at one, the Departure of Hagar into the Wilderness. The artist had represented Hagar turning away from the door of the tent with Ishmael and the bottle of water; Abraham was near her; while Sarah in the background with a triumphant face exulted at the driving out of the bondmaid. The picture had not much merit as a work of Art; but in Hagar's face was such a look of despairing, wistful tenderness, as she turned towards Abraham for the last time, that it moved me almost to tears. I drew a long breath as the picture was turned over. Looking up, I saw Eleanor's eyes fixed upon me.
"'You pity Hagar, then? You think it was a harsh and cruel thing to drive her out into the wilderness with her child?'
"'Yes,' said I, shortly,—a little provoked that she should have seen it in my face.
"She went on: 'Sarah was right. Had I been she, I would have driven her out as remorselessly and as pitilessly. Did she not, presuming upon her youth, her beauty, and her child, despise her mistress? and why should her mistress feel compassion for her? The love of a long life might well thrust aside the passion of a few months, and Sarah, contemned by her bondmaid, is more worthy of pity than Hagar, in my eyes.'
"I was about to say that Sarah was more to blame for Hagar's conduct than she was herself, when Mr. Lee observed 'that Abraham was more to be pitied than either of them, for he was unable or unwilling to protect either of the women whom he loved,—his wife from the contempt of her bondmaid, or the bondmaid from the fury of his wife.'
"I fancied Eleanor did not exactly like this remark, for she turned to the next print hastily and began commenting upon it.
"May 6.—The groves and fields are beautiful with the fresh beauty of the early spring. We have given up our winter occupations for long rambles on the hills and in the woods. I sometimes decline being a third in the lovers' walks; but Eleanor seems so dissatisfied, if I refuse to accompany them, that I consent, lagging behind often, and have learned to be both blind and deaf as occasion requires. I think, too, that Mr. Lee is not sorry to have me with them. He and Eleanor have been separated for three years, and I sometimes wonder if they have not grown away from each other in that time. A long absence is a dangerous experiment even for friends, much more for lovers. Besides, no life is long enough to allow such great gaps in it.
"June 1.—We were sitting yesterday under the ash-trees on the lawn,—Eleanor netting, Mr. Lee reading Dante aloud, and I making myself rings and bracelets out of the shining blades of grass, and pretending to listen, when a servant brought Eleanor a letter. It was very short, for she did not turn the leaf. When she had read it she drew out her watch.
"'I have an hour before the express-train starts. Tell Mrs. Bickford to pack my trunk for a journey. Harness the black horse to drive to the station.'
"She put the letter into Mr. Lee's hands. 'My brother is very ill, and I shall go to him at once. Elizabeth, I am sorry to leave you here alone, but while I am gone I hope Thornton will consider you under his charge and protection.'
"She rose, as she spoke, and went towards the house, followed by Thornton.
