A porcupine hides his flesh in bristling quills; but a magnolia, when its time has not yet come, folds its heart in and in with over-lacing tissues of creamy richness and fragrance.
The flower is not sullen, it is only secret.
"I suppose you are twenty years wiser than you were," said Mrs.Simcoe.
"What is wisdom ?" asked Lawrence Newt.
"To give the heart to God," replied she.
"That I have discovered," he said.
"And have you given it ?" "I hope so." "Yes, but haven't you the assurance ?" asked she, earnestly.
"I hope so," responded Lawrence Newt, in the same kindly tone.
"But assurance is a gift," continued she.
"A gift of what ?" "Of Peace," replied Mrs.Simcoe.
"Ah! well, I have that," said the other, quietly, as his eyes rested upon the portrait.
There was moisture in the eyes.
"Her daughter is very like her," he said, musingly; and the two stood together silently for some time looking at the picture.
"Not entirely like her mother," replied Mrs.Simcoe, as if to assert some other resemblance.
"Perhaps not; but I never saw her father." As Lawrence Newt said this, Mrs.Simcoe raised her hand, opened it, and held the miniature before his eyes.

He took it and gazed closely at it.
"And this is Colonel Wayne," said he, slowly.

"This is the man who broke another man's heart and murdered a woman." A mingled expression of pain, indignation, passionate regret, and resignation suddenly glittered on the face of Mrs.Simcoe.
"Mr.Newt, Mr.Newt," said she, hurriedly, in a thick voice, "let us at least respect the dead!" Lawrence Newt, still holding the miniature in his hand, looked surprised and searchingly at his companion.

A lofty pity shot into his eyes.
"Could I speak of her otherwise ?" The sudden change in Mrs.Simcoe's expression conveyed her thought to him before her words: "No, no! not of _her_, but--" She stopped, as if wrestling with a fierce inward agony.

The veins on her forehead were swollen, and her eyes flashed with singular light.