The mother, usually so kind and affectionate, would today free herself from her child, and sent her away with quivering lip, and tears in her eyes, to listen to her nurse's stories.
Once alone, Wilhelmine paced her room with rapid strides and folded arms, giving vent to her repressed anguish.

She reviewed her life, with all its changing scenes.

It was a sad, searching retrospection, but in it she found consolation and excuse for herself.

She thought of her childhood; she saw the gloomy dwelling where she had lived with her parents, brothers, and sisters.

She recalled the need and the want of those years--the sickly, complaining, but busy mother; the foolish, wicked father, who never ceased his constant exercise of the bugle, except to take repeated draughts of brandy, or scold the children.