THEY were strolling together in the art gallery. It was the first time that Glenn had seen Esther since returning from his vacation. He stopped to admire a picture, for the second time, pointing out its beauties for her. She appreciated his interpretations, and her acute understanding grew more beautiful to him. “I never look at such work,” he said, “without wondering what it cost its creator. The gift of art is great, sacred, yet it is one long term of self-denial.” “I know that,” Esther assented. She was beginning to realize its draining demands. She had brightened a trifle to-day in spite of it. A little of the old impulsive blooming beauty had come back. The brisk walk through the park, in the keen, sweet autumn weather might have heightened that--and Glenn’s return doubtless had something to do with it. “Mrs. Low has a picture in her gallery by this same artist. She has one of the finest private galleries in the city. You shall see it, I believe, now that she’s back. I promised her I’d bring you to one of her receptions. She’s noted for having people who are amazingly clever, or beautiful or something of the sort. Fortunately I come under the class, ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot?’ But you are to do your turn. She expects it. We will go next Tuesday to her opening night. You will see a live lord. Her daughter, who married one, brought him home with her.” “Will it make me like you any less?” “I should hope not. Rather more, for he has brutal manners, and you would never think she held a higher place than his stenographer. But she doesn’t mind that, she has a title. He draws his allowance from her and his inspiration from elsewhere. I fancy they are rather contented.” “Contented!” Esther lifted a solemn face to him. “It seems to me that a marriage without love would crush all that was sweetest and finest in a woman’s nature. Marriage for love is the dearest gift to any soul--it is the highest ideal of God’s world.” She was in one of her intense moods. “But if it be for anything else?” He encouraged her to go on. “It’s a desecration. Love is not only the holiest thing in the life of a woman, but it’s life itself for the man. It makes him whatever he becomes. The righteous altar-vow is a delight and to obey is the cry of the heart if it speaks the words with the lips.” “You know we never agreed upon that subject. I consider marriage merely an incident in life.” “But the one decisive incident of it all,” she returned. They had left the gallery and were going through the park. His glance wandered often from her face to a glad contemplation of the vivid coloring of the woods. “Mightn’t a man marry for honor?” finally he asked. “Give me an example.” “I am not trying to convert you,” he said, disclaiming all responsibility. “Tell me of a case?” His face contracted nervously. “Let’s talk about something else.”