Take it all in all, it is an interesting picture, centered in that splendid room, where everything breathes luxury and wealth—the slender form of the young husband clad in black, contrasted with the imposing figure of the young wife, enveloped in drapery of flowing white.
"I must go, wife. Kiss me."—She bent back his head and gazing upon him long and earnestly, suffered her lips to join his,—"I'll be back before Christmas."
"You are sure that you must go?" she exclaimed, toying with the curls of his dark hair.
"You saw the letter which I received from Boston. My poor brother lies at the point of death. I must see him, Joanna,—you know how it pains me to be absent from you, only for a day,—but I must go. I'll be back by Christmas morning."
"Will you; indeed, though, Eugene?"—she wound her arms about his neck—"You know how drearily the time passes without you. O, how I shall count the hours until you return!" And at every word she smoothed his forehead with her hand, and touched his mouth with those lips which bloomed with the ripeness and purity of perfect womanhood.
"I must go, Joanna,"—and convulsed at the thought of leaving this young wife, even for a day, the husband gathered her to his breast, and then seizing his cloak and carpet-bag, hurried from the room. His steps were heard in the hall without, and presently the sound of the closing door reached the ears of the young wife.
An expression of intense sorrow passed over her face, and she remained in the center of the room, her hand clasped over her noble bust, and her head bowed in an attitude of deep melancholy.
"He is gone," she murmured, and passing through the spacious apartment, she traversed the hall, and ascended the broad stairway.
At the head of the stairway was a large and roomy apartment, warmed (like every room in the mansion) from an invisible source, which gave a delightful temperature to the atmosphere. There was a small workstand in the midst of the apartment, on which stood a lighted candle. A servant maid was sleeping with her head upon the table, and one hand resting upon a cradle at her side. In that cradle, above the verge of a silken coverlet, appeared the face of a cherub boy, fast asleep, with a rose on his cheek, and ringlets of auburn hair, tangled about his forehead, white as alabaster.
This room the young mother entered, and treading on tiptoe, she approached the cradle and bent over it, until her lips touched the forehead of the sleeping boy. And when she rose again there was a tear upon his cheek,—it had fallen from the blue eye of the mother.