"Can you not tell me?" she said, with an upward look of entreaty. She was thinking of what Hugh Ritson had said of an impediment to their marriage. "Why should I tell you what is false?" "Then let us dismiss the thought of it," she said, soothingly. "Why, yes, of course, let us dismiss the thought of it, darling," and he laughed a loud, hollow laugh. His forehead was damp. She wiped away the cold sweat. His temples burned. She put her cool hand on them. He was the very wreck of his former self--the ruin of a man. "Would that I could!" he muttered to himself. "Then tell me," she said. "It is my right to know it. I am your wife now--" He drew himself away. She clung yet closer. "Paul, there can be no secrets between you and me--nothing can be kept back." "Heavenly Father!" he cried, uplifting a face distorted with agony. "If you can not dismiss it, let it not stand between us," said Greta. Could it be true that there had been an impediment? "My darling, it would do no good to tell you. When I took you to be my wife, I vowed to protect and cherish you. Shall I keep my vow if I burden you with a black lie that will drive the sunshine out of your life? Look at me--look at me!" Greta's breast heaved heavily, but she smiled with a piteous sweetness as she laid her head on his breast, and said, "No, while I have you, no lie can do that!" Paul made no answer. An awful burden of speech was on his tongue. In the silence they heard the sound of weeping. It was as if some poor woman were sobbing her heart out in the room above. "Dearest, when two hearts are made one in marriage they are made one indeed," said Greta, in a soft voice. "Henceforth the thought of the one is the thought of both; the happiness of one is the happiness of both, the sorrow of one is the sorrow of both. Nothing comes between. Joy is twofold when both share it, and only grief is less for being borne by two. Death itself, cruel, relentless death itself, even death knits that union closer. And in sunshine and storm, in this world and in the next, the bond is ever the same. The tie of the purest friendship is weak compared with this tie, and even the bond of blood is less strong!" "Oh, God of heaven, this is too much!" said Paul. "Paul, if this union of thought and deed, of joy and grief, begins with marriage and does not end even with death, shall we now, here, at the threshold of our marriage, do it wrong?" A great sob choked Paul's utterance. "I can not tell you," he cried; "I have sworn an oath." "An oath! Then, surely, this present trouble was not that which Hugh Ritson has threatened?" "Greta, if our union means anything, it means trust. Trust me, my darling. I am helpless. My tongue is sealed. I dare not speak. No, not even to you. Scarcely to God Himself!" There was silence for a moment.