So we will bear the warning-pass from it for the present.
More than two years have passed; writs of error have been filed and
argued; the children have dragged out time in a prison-house. Is it
in freedom's land a prison was made for the innocent to waste in? So
it is, and may Heaven one day change the tenour! Excuse, reader,
this digression, and let us proceed with our narrative.
The morning is clear and bright; Mrs. Rosebrook sits at the window
of her cheerful villa, watching the approach of the post-rider seen
in the distance, near a cluster of oaks that surround the entrance
of the arbour, at the north side of the garden. The scene spread out
before her is full of rural beauty, softened by the dew-decked
foliage, clothing the landscape with its clumps. As if some fairy
hand had spread a crystal mist about the calm of morning, and angels
were bedecking it with the richest tints of a rising sun at morn,
the picture sparkles with silvery life. There she sits, her soft
glowing eyes scanning the reposing scene, as her graceful form seems
infusing spirit into its silent loveliness. And then she speaks, as
if whispering a secret to the wafting air: "our happy union!" It
falls upon the ear like some angel voice speaking of things too
pure, too holy for the caprices of earth. She would be a type of
that calmness pervading the scene-that sweetness and repose which
seem mingling to work out some holy purpose; and yet there is a
touching sadness depicted in her face.
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