Agnes had her peaceful domestic throne established under the picture.  My father wished it to be so, and spent his evenings there in the warmth and light, instead of in the old library,—­in the narrow circle cleared by our lamp out of the darkness, as long as he lived.  It is supposed by strangers that the picture on the wall is that of my wife; and I have always been glad that it should be so supposed.  She who was my mother, who came back to me and became as my soul for three strange moments and no more, but with whom I can feel no credible relationship as she stands there, has retired for me into the tender regions of the unseen.  She has passed once more into the secret company of those shadows, who can only become real in an atmosphere fitted to modify and harmonize all differences, and make all wonders possible,—­the light of the perfect day.