Into the mysteries which followed—­the mysteries of hemming and stitching, of tucking and trimming, ruffling, embroidering, of all the hurry and delicious confusion of an elegant yet hasty bridal trousseau—­let us not attempt to investigate.

Doubtless through those days, through this sweet and happy whirl of emotion, Francesca had many anxious and painful hours:  hours in which she looked at the future—­for him more than for herself—­with sorrowful anticipations and forebodings.  But with each evening came a letter, written in the morning by his dear hand; a letter so full of happy, hopeful love, of resolute, manly spirit, that her cares and anxieties all took flight, and were but as a tale that is told, or as a dream of darkness when the sun shines upon a blessed reality.

He wrote her that he had told his parents of his wishes and plans; and that, as he had known before, they were opposed, and opposed most bitterly; but he was sure that time would soften, and knowledge destroy this prejudice utterly.  He wrote as he believed.  They were so fond of him, so devoted to him who was their only child, that he was assured they would not and could not cast him off, nor hate that which he loved.  He did not know that his father, who had never before been guilty of a base action,—­his mother, who was fine to daintiness,—­were both so warped by this senseless and cruel feeling—­having seen Francesca and known all her beautiful and noble elements of personal character—­as to have written her a letter which only a losel should have penned and an outcast read.  She did not tell him.  Being satisfied that they two belonged to one another; that if they were separated it would be as the tearing asunder of a perfect whole, leaving the parts rent and bleeding,—­she would not listen to any voice that attempted, nor heed any hand that strove to drive an entering wedge, or to divide them.  Why, then, should she trouble him by the knowledge that this effort had again been made, and by those he trusted and honored.  Let it pass.  The future must decide what the future must be, meanwhile, they were to live in a happy present.

He learned of it, however, before he left his home.  Finding that neither persuasions, threats, nor prayers could move him,—­that he would be true to honor and love,—­they told him of what they had done; laid bare the whole intensity of their feeling; and putting her on the one side, placing themselves on the other, said, “Choose,—­this wife, or those who have loved you for a lifetime.  Cleave to her, and your father disowns you, your mother renounces, your home shuts its doors upon you, never to open.  With the world and its judgment we have nothing to do; that is between it and you; but no judgment of indifferent strangers shall be more severe than ours.”