e
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