A shadow of pain darkened her face.

“No,” replied Mrs. Everet; “it is better for both you and him that you were not the bride of Death.  There are deeper things hidden in the events of life than our reason can fathom.  We die when it is best for ourselves and best for others that we should die—­never before.  And the fact that we live is in itself conclusive that we are yet needed in the world by all who can be affected by our mortal existence.”

“Gray hairs at forty!” This seemed to haunt the mind of Irene.

“It may be constitutional,” suggested Mrs. Everet; “some heads begin to whiten at thirty.”

“Possibly.”

But the tone expressed no conviction.

“How was his face?” asked Irene.

“Grave and thoughtful.  At least so it appeared to me.”

“At forty.”  It was all Irene said.

Mrs. Everet might have suggested that a man of his legal position would naturally be grave and thoughtful, but she did not.

“It struck me,” said Mrs. Everet, “as a true, pure, manly face.  It was intellectual and refined; delicate, yet firm about the mouth and expansive in the upper portions.  The hair curled softly away from his white temples and forehead.”

“Worthy of a better fate!” sighed Irene.  “And it is I who have marred his whole life!  How blind is selfish passion!  Ah, my friend, the years do not bring peace to my soul.  There have been times when to know that he had sought refuge from a lonely life in marriage would have been a relief to me.  Were this the case, the thought of his isolation, of his imperfect life, would not be for ever rebuking me.  But now, while no less severely rebuked by this thought, I feel glad that he has not ventured upon an act no clear sanction for which is found in the Divine law.  He could not, I feel, have remained so true and pure a man as I trust he is this day.  God help him to hold on, faithful to his highest intuitions, even unto the end.”

Mrs. Everet looked at Irene wonderingly as she spoke.  She had never before thus unveiled her thoughts.

“He struck me,” was her reply, “as a man who had passed through years of discipline and gained the mastery of himself.”

“I trust that it may be so,” Irene answered, rather as if speaking to herself than to another.

“As I grow older,” she added, after a long pause, now looking with calm eyes upon her friend, “and life-experiences correct my judgment and chasten my feelings, I see all things in a new aspect.  I understand my own heart better—­its needs, capacities and yearnings; and self-knowledge is the key by which we unlock the mystery of other souls.  So a deeper self-acquaintance enables me to look deeper into the hearts of all around me.  I erred in marrying Mr. Emerson.  We were both too hasty, self-willed and tenacious of rights and opinions to come together in a union so sacred and so intimate.  But, after I had become his wife, after I had taken upon myself such holy vows, it was my duty to stand fast.  I could not abandon my place and be innocent before God and man.  And I am not innocent, Rose.”