We may find happiness in either
prosperity or adversity. But, what true happiness is there for a
loving heart, if, from the only source of reciprocation, there is
but an imperfect response? A strong mind may accommodate itself, in
the exercise of a firm religious philosophy, to even these
circumstances, and like the wisely discriminating bee, extract honey
from even the most unpromising flower. But, it is hard--nay, almost
impossible--for one like Madeline, reared as she was in so warm an
atmosphere of love, to fall back upon and find a sustaining power,
in such a philosophy. Her spirit first must droop. There must be a
passing through the fire, with painful purification. Alas! How many
perish in the ordeal!--How many gentle, loving ones, unequally
mated, die, daily, around us; moving on to the grave, so far as the
world knows, by the way of some fatal bodily ailment; yet, in truth,
failing by a heart-sickness that has dried up the fountains of life.
And so it was with the wife of Edward Leslie. Greatly her husband
wondered at the shadows which fell, more and more heavily, on
Madeline--wondered as time wore on, at the paleness of her
cheeks--the sadness which, often, she could not repress when he was
by; the variableness of her spirits--all tending to destroy the
balance of her nervous system, and, finally, ending in confirmed
ill-health, that demanded, imperiously, the diversion of his
thoughts from business and worldly schemes to the means of
prolonging her life.
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