She could not, even to herself, answer that question.

“What was he saying—­that God teaches us by our very errors—­that there is no such thing as ‘might have been?’ He thinks so, and he is very wise, far wiser and better than I am.  I might have loved him.  Oh that I had only waited till I did really love him, instead of fancying it enough that he loved me.  But I must not think.  I have done with thinking.  It would drive me out of my senses.”

She started up, and stood gazing round the cheerful, bright, handsome room, where every luxury that a comfortable income could give had been provided for her comfort, every little fancy and taste she had been remembered, with a tender mindfulness that would have made the heart of any newly-married wife, married for love, leap for joy, and look forward hopefully to that life which, with all its added cares, a good man’s affection can make so happy to the woman who is his chosen delight.  But in Christian’s face was no happiness; only that white, wild, frightened look, which had come on her marriage day, and then settled down into what she now wore—­the aspect of passive submission and endurance.

“But I will do my duty.  And he will do his, no fear of that!  He is so good—­far better than I. Yes, I shall do my duty?”

"Faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."

There is a deeper meaning in this text than we at first see.  Of “these three,” two concern ourselves; the third concerns others.  When faith and hope fail, as they do sometimes, we must try charity, which is love in action.  We must speculate no more on our duty, but simply do it.  When we have done it, however blindly, perhaps Heaven will show us the reason why.

Christian went down stairs slowly and sadly, but quite calmly, to spend—­and she did spend it, painlessly, if not pleasantly—­the first evening in her own home.

Chapter 3.

    "When ye’re my ain goodwife, lassie,
     What’ll ye bring to me? 
     A hantle o’siller, a stockin’ o’ gowd? 
     ’I haena ae bawbee.’

"When ye are my ain goodwife, lassie, And sit at my fireside, Will the red and white meet in your face?  ’Na! ye’ll no get a bonnie bride.’

"But gin ye’re my ain goodwife, lassie, Mine for gude an’ ill, Will ye bring me three things lassie, My empty hame to fill?"

"A temper sweet, a silent tongue, A heart baith warm and free?  Then I’ll marry ye the morn, lassie, And loe ye till I dee."

Avonsbridge lay still deep in February snow, for it was the severest winter which had been known there for many years.  But any one who is acquainted with the place must allow that it never looks better or more beautiful than in a fierce winter frost—­too fierce to melt the snow; when, in early morning, you may pass from college to college, over quadrangles, courts, and gardens, and your own footsteps will be the only mark on the white untrodden carpet, which lies glittering and dazzling before you, pure and beautiful as even country snow.