Thank God! the curate said devoutly within himself. For he knew, and she knew--and he knew that she knew--that he must have married Sophy had Diana willed it. He would have resisted, but he would have yielded--and been happy. How sorry Diana was that it had not occurred to her in time! “You would have been a very happy couple,” she said. “Don’t say anything. I am sure of it. What a help she would have been in the parish!” And to this he could not say no. “I don’t know if you will like me to ask,” he said, faltering, and feeling it safe to change the subject, “but--do they get on? are they--comfortable? I knew--all about it, you remember--at the time.” “Did you?” she said, ignoring all that had passed between them on this subject. “I have never asked if they were comfortable, Mr. Snodgrass; but why should we doubt it? There is always a little risk with people of different nationalities; but Sophy always writes in high spirits.” “She was in high spirits on her wedding-day!” the curate muttered, furious with Sophy, for whose sake Diana treated him with such unusual severity. He had a double grievance against her now. “And should not you like your bride to be in high spirits on her wedding-day?” “Oh, Miss Trelawny, how hard you are upon me! when you know I shall never have any bride,” said the young man, with a look which he meant to be eloquent. They had come to the avenue by this time, and were about to part. “Till we find a second Sophy,” she said, and gave him her hand, smiling, as she turned towards the house. He stood for a moment looking after her with dull but wistful eyes. Nothing but that smile would ever be his from Diana. But if a second Sophy could be found! The curate turned and went on with a little shiver of conscious weakness. Did not he know, and did not she know, that what she commanded he would do? But perhaps along with this fear and consciousness there was a little flutter of anticipation, too, in the curate’s faithful breast.