the divorces under the sun.  That’s the worst of getting married:  you break into each other’s lives.  You said something like it to me, that day when you came back from your sail with Walter Libby.  And I just concluded that there could n’t be any trial that would n’t be a great deal easier to bear than getting rid of all your trials; and I just made up my mind that if any divorce was to be got, George Maynard might get it himself; a temporary separation was bad enough for me, and I told him so, about the first words I could speak.  And we’re going to try the new departure on that platform.  We don’t either of us suspect we can have things perfectly smooth, but we’ve agreed to rough it together when we can’t.  We’ve found out that we can’t marry and then become single, any more than we could die and come to life again.  And don’t you forget it, Grace!  You don’t half know yourself, now.  You know what you have been; but getting married lets loose all your possibilities.  You don’t know what a temper you’ve got, nor how badly you can behave—­how much like a naughty, good-for-nothing little girl; for a husband and wife are just two children together:  that’s what makes the sweetness of it, and that’s what makes the dreadfulness.  Oh, you’ll have need of all your good principles, I can tell you, and if you’ve a mind to do anything practical in the way of high purposes, I reckon there’ll be use for them all.”

Another lady who was astonished at Grace’s choice was more incurably disappointed and more grieved for the waste of those noble aims with which her worshipping fancy had endowed the girl even more richly than her own ambition.  It was Grace’s wish to pass a year in Europe before her husband should settle down in charge of his mills; and their engagement, marriage, and departure followed so swiftly upon one another, that Miss Gleason would have had no opportunity to proffer remonstrance or advice.  She could only account for Grace’s course on the theory that Dr. Mulbridge had failed to offer himself; but this explained her failure to marry him, without explaining her marriage with Mr. Libby.  That remained for some time a mystery, for Miss Gleason firmly refused to believe that such a girl could be in love with a man so much her inferior:  the conception disgraced not only her idol, but cast shame upon all other women, whose course in such matters is notoriously governed by motives of the highest sagacity and judgment.

Mrs. Breen hesitated between the duty of accompanying the young couple on their European travels, and that of going to the village where Libby’s mills were situated,—­in southern New Hampshire.  She was not strongly urged to a decision by her children, and she finally chose the latter course.  The mill property had been a long time abandoned before Libby’s father bought it, and put it in a repair which he did not hasten to extend to the village.  This had remained in a sort of picturesque neglect, which harmonized with the scenery of the wild little