“I say nothing of myself.  I’m only a weak, passionate man; but I mean to let your soul be pure.  Yet I believe you judge wrongly in this.  You think of marriage, as women in your State and in the South are taught to think, as a thing irrevocable.  There are men in New England who hold other views,—­pure, good men, Grey.  I’ve tried to put you from my mind, and look at society as it is, with its corrupt, mercenary marriages, and I believe their theory is the only feasible and just,—­that only those bound by secret affinity to each other are truly married.”

Grey’s face flushed.

“I have heard the theory, and its results,”—­low.

“Because it has been seized upon as a cloak by false men.  Use your reason, Grey.  Do not be blinded by popular prejudice.  Your fate and mine rest on this question.”

“I will try to understand.”

She faced him gravely.

“Whom God hath joined together no man shall put asunder.  Somewhere, when our souls were made, I think, He joined us, Grey.  You know that.”

“I do know it.”

She stood up, not shrinking from his eye now,—­her womanly nature, clear and brave, looking out from hers.

“I will not speak of love:  you know what that is.  You know you need me:  you have moulded your very thought and life in mine.  It is right it should be so.  God meant it.  He made them male and female:  taught them by that instinct of nearness to know when the two souls mated in eternity had found each other.  Then the only true marriage comes,—­pure, helpful, resting on God, stretching out strong, healthy aid to His humanity.  The true souls, lovers, have found each other now, Grey.”

He came to her,—­took her hands in his.

“I know that,”—­her pale face still lifted.

“Then,”—­all the passion of a life in his voice,—­“what shall come between us?  If, in God’s eye, who is Love, you love me purely, have given me the life of your life to keep, is a foul, lying vow, uttered to a man scarce made in God’s image, to keep us apart?  I tell you, your soul’s health and mine depend on this.”

She did not speak:  her breath came labored and thick.

“You will come with me, Grey.  You shall not go back to the slavery yonder, dragging out the bit of time God gave you, in which to develop your soul, in coddling selfish brats, and kitchen-work.  There are homes where men and women enfranchise themselves from the cursed laws of society,—­Phalansteries,—­where each soul develops itself out of the inner centre of eternal truth and love according to its primal bent, free to yield to its instincts and affinities.  I learned their theory long ago, but I never believed in it until now.  We will go there, Grey.  We will be governed by the laws of our own nature.  It will be a free, beautiful life, my own.  Music and Art and Nature shall surround us with an eternal harmony.  We will have work, true work, such as