“If any trouble springs from this, you must pardon me,” she more than once whispered.  “I cannot help it.  I have never, never, never been loved before; and oh, I have been so hungry, so famished for it, I had begun to despair of it.  Yes, when I first met you, I had quite despaired of there being any love in the world for me.  I could not help listening to you:  I could not help taking all your words and looks into my craving heart; and now I am yours—­forgive me!”

Stranger as she was in Northport, everybody trusted the frank sweetness in her face, and sought no other cause for admiring her and wishing her happiness.  The whole village came to the church to witness her marriage and to doat upon a bridal beauty which lay far more in expression than in form or feature.  A few words of description—­inadequate notes to represent the precious gold of reality—­must be given to one who could change the stare of curiosity to a beaming glance of sympathy.

Small, slender, fragile; neither blonde nor brunette; a clear skin, with a hectic flush; light chestnut hair, glossy and curling; eyes of violet blue, large, humid and lustrous, which at the first glance seemed black because of the darkness, length and closeness of the lashes, and capable of expressing an earnestness and sweetness which no writer or artist might hope to depict; a manner which in solitude might be languid, but which the slightest touch of interest kindled into animation; in fine, white teeth that sparkled with gayety, and glances that flashed happiness.

She was married without bridal costume, and there was no wedding journey.  Leighton was poor, and must attend to his business; and his wife wanted nothing from him which he could not spare—­nothing but his love.  Impossible to paint her pathetic gratitude for this affection; the spiritual—­it was not passionate—­fondness which she bore him; the softness of her eyes as she gazed for minutes together into his; the sudden, tremulous outreachings of her hands toward him, as she just touches him with her finger and draws back, then leans forward and lies in his arms, uttering a little cry of happiness.  Here was a heart that must long have hungered for affection—­a heart unspeakably thankful and joyous at obtaining it.

“I have been smiling all day,” she sometimes said to him.  “People have asked me why I looked so gay, and what I had heard that was funny.  It is just because I am entirely happy, and because the feeling is still a surprise.  Shall I ever get over it?  Am I silly?  No!”

Her gladness of heart seemed to make her angelic.  She rejoiced in every joy around her, and grieved for every sorrow.  She visited the poor of her husband’s patients, watched with them when there was need, made little collections for their relief, chatted away their forebodings, half cured them with her smile.  There was something catching, comforting, uplifting in the spectacle of that overbrimming content.