“Anne” said Edith, “I’m uneasy about Walter.”

“You need not be,” said Anne.

“Why?  Aren’t you?”

“I know he hasn’t been well lately—­”

“How can you expect him to be well when he’s so unhappy?”

Anne was silent.

“How long is it going to last, dear?  And where is it going to end?”

“Edith, you needn’t be afraid.  I shall never leave him.”

That was not what Edith was afraid of, but she did not say so.

“How can I,” Anne went on, “when I believe the Church’s doctrine of marriage?”

“Do you?  Do you believe that love is a provision for the soul’s redemption of the body? or for the body’s redemption of the soul?”

“I believe that, having married Walter, whatever he is or does, I cannot leave him without great sin.”

“Then you’ll be shocked when I tell you that if your husband were a bad man, I should be the first to implore you to leave him, though he is my brother.  Where there can be no love on either side there’s no marriage, and no sacrament.  That’s my profane belief.”

“And when there’s love on one side only?”

“The sacrament is there, offered by the loving person, and refused by the unloving.  And that refusal, my dear child, may, if you like, be a great sin—­supposing, of course, that the love is pure and devoted.  I hardly know which is the worst sin, then, to refuse to give, or to refuse to take it; or to take it, and then throw it away.  What would you think if Peggy hardened her little heart against you?”

“My Peggy!”

“Yes, your Peggy.  It’s the same thing.  You’ll see it some day.  But I want you to see it now, before it’s too late.”

“Edie, if you’d only tell me where I’ve failed!  If you’re thinking of our—­our separation—­”

“I was not.  But, since you have mentioned it, I can’t help reminding you that you fell in love with Walter because you thought he was a saint.  And so I don’t see what’s to prevent you now.  He’s qualifying.  He mayn’t be perfect; but, in some ways, a saint couldn’t very well do more.  Has it never occurred to that you are indulging the virtue that comes easiest to you, and exacting from him the virtue that comes hardest?  And he has stood the test.”

“It was his own doing—­his own wish.”

“Is it?  I doubt it—­when he’s more in love with you than he was before he married you.”

“That’s all over.”

“For you.  Not for him.  He’s a man, as you may say, of obstinate affections.”

“Ah, Edie—­you don’t know.”

“I know,” said Edith, “you’re perfectly sweet, the way you take my scoldings.  It’s cowardly of me, when I’m lying here safe, and you can’t scold back again.  But I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t love you.”

“I know—­I know you love me.”

“But I couldn’t love you so much, if I didn’t love Walter more.”

“You well may, Edie.  He’s been a good brother to you.”