“And you would like to see him well married, would you not?” said Mrs. Scudder, sending, with a true woman’s aim, this keen arrow into the midst of the cloud of enthusiasm which enveloped her daughter.  “I think,” she added, “that Jane Spencer would make him an excellent wife.”

Mary was astonished at a strange, new pain that shot through her at these words.  She drew in her breath and turned herself uneasily, as one who had literally felt a keen dividing blade piercing between soul and spirit.  Till this moment, she had never been conscious of herself; but the shaft had torn the veil.  She covered her face with her hands; the hot blood flushed scarlet over neck and brow; at last, with a beseeching look, she threw herself into her mother’s arms.

“Oh, mother, mother, I am selfish, after all!”

Mrs. Scudder folded her silently to her heart, and said, “My daughter, this is not at all what I wished it to be; I see how it is;—­but then you have been a good child; I don’t blame you.  We can’t always help ourselves.  We don’t always really know how we do feel.  I didn’t know, for a long while, that I loved your father.  I thought I was only curious about him, because he had a strange way of treating me, different from other men; but, one day, I remember, Julian Simons told me that it was reported that his mother was making a match for him with Susan Emery, and I was astonished to find how I felt.  I saw him that evening, and the moment he looked at me I saw it wasn’t true; all at once I knew something I never knew before,—­and that was, that I should be very unhappy, if he loved any one else better than me.  But then, my child, your father was a different man from James;—­he was as much better than I was as you are than James.  I was a foolish, thoughtless young thing then.  I never should have been anything at all, but for him.  Somehow, when I loved him, I grew more serious, and then he always guided and led me.  Mary, your father was a wonderful man; he was one of the sort that the world knows not of;—­sometime I must show you his letters.  I always hoped, my daughter, that you would marry such a man.”

“Don’t speak of marrying, mother.  I never shall marry.”

“You certainly should not, unless you can marry in the Lord.  Remember the words, ’Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.  For what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? and what concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?’”

“Mother, James is not an infidel.”

“He certainly is an unbeliever, Mary, by his own confession;—­but then God is a Sovereign and hath mercy on whom He will.  You do right to pray for him; but if he does not come out on the Lord’s side, you must not let your heart mislead you.  He is going to be gone three years, and you must try to think as little of him as possible;—­put your mind upon your duties, like a good girl, and God will bless you.  Don’t believe too much in your power over him;—­young men, when they in love, will promise anything, and really think they mean it; but nothing is a saving change, except what is wrought in them by sovereign grace.”