As a girl, Ruth Harding had been one of the mildest and gentlest of the
human race. Though new impulses had been given to her naturally kind
affections by the attachments of a wife and mother, her disposition
suffered no change by marriage. Obedient, disinterested, and devoted to
those she loved, as her parents had known her, so, by the experience of
many years, had she proved to Content. In the midst of the utmost
equanimity of temper and of deportment, her watchful solicitude in behalf
of the few who formed the limited circle of her existence, never
slumbered. It dwelt unpretendingly but active in her gentle bosom, like a
great and moving principle of life. Though circumstances had placed her
on a remote and exposed frontier, where time had not been given for the
several customary divisions of employments, she was unchanged in habits,
in feelings, and in character. The affluence of her husband had elevated
her above the necessity of burthensome toil; and, while she had
encountered the dangers of the wilderness, and neglected none of the
duties of her active station, she had escaped most of those injurious
consequences which are a little apt to impair the peculiar loveliness of
woman.
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