Strange indeed, and full of a holy promise, is the yearning with which we turn to Heaven to seek sanctification of our deeds, feeling our weakness and craving strength from the source of strength; a yearning of which the church, with that subtle knowledge of human nature, which is one of the mainsprings of its power, has not been slow to avail itself.  And this need is more especially felt in matters connected with the noblest of all passions, perhaps because all true love and all true religion come from a common home.

Thus pledged to one another with a new and awful pledge, and knit together in the bonds of an universal love, embracing their poor affection as the wide skies embrace the earth, they rose, and went their ways, purer to worship, and stronger to endure.

That afternoon, Arthur had a conversation with his betrothed that, partaking of a business nature in the beginning, ended rather oddly.

“I must speak to your father when he comes back to-morrow, dear,” he began.

“My father!  Oh yes, I had forgotten about that;” and she looked a little anxious.

“Fortunately, I am fairly well off, so I see no cause why he should object.”

“Well, I think that he will be rather glad to get rid of Pigott and myself.  You know that he is not very fond of me.”

“That is strange want of taste on his part.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Everybody does not see me with your eyes, Arthur.”

“Because they have not the chance.  All the world would love you, if it knew you.  But, seriously, I think that he can hardly object, or he would not have allowed us to be thrown so much together; for, in nine cases out of ten, that sort of thing has only one result.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that to import a young fellow into the house, and throw him solely into a daughter’s company, is very apt to bring about—­well, what has been brought about.”

“Then you mean that you think that I should have fallen in love with any gentleman who had come here?”

Arthur, not seeing the slight flash of indignation in her eyes, replied,

“Well, you know, there is always a risk, but I should imagine that it would very much depend upon the gentleman.”

“Arthur”—­with a little stamp—­“I am ashamed of you.  How can you think such things of me?  You must have a very poor opinion of me.”

“My dear, why should I suppose myself superior to anybody else, that you should only fall in love with me?  You set too high a value on me.”

“And you set too low a value on me; you do not understand me.  You are my fate, my other self; how would it have been possible for me to love any one but you?  I feel as though I had been travelling to meet you since the beginning of the world, to stand by your side till it crumbles away, yes, for eternity itself.  Oh!  Arthur, do not laugh at what I say.  I am, indeed, only a simple girl, but,