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118 her also in her fate," he observed to Parizzi, in a voice of terror. "Take comfort, it was only in the voice and the features they resemble each other. Margarita was a spoiled child, and afterwards an adored wife—the mother, whose religious scruples denied her the great wish of her heart, granted all the lesser, rendering her (sweet girl as she was) capricious and petulant—her husband went still farther in worship and indulgence—your lady has not been ruined by such weakness." "She has not," said Glentworth, as certain passages of lovers' quarrels rose upon his mind, which, however sweet when healed, had not given promise of that submission and glad obedience ever found in the wife, and he sighed, profoundly ejaculating, "poor Isabella!" and, perceiving he was again left alone, eagerly traversed the long drawing-room, hour after hour, in terrible solicitude—at length he was summoned: a living son and a living mother (though a weak one) were before him.

If there is a moment in man's life when he feels, profoundly and intensely, that he has a heart, it is at such a moment as this; and Glentworth, a man endowed by nature with the acutest sensibility, which of late he had fostered at the expence of sober and rational happiness, could not fail to experience the glowing gratitude to Heaven; the thankfulness, tenderness, pity, and love for his young wife, her late