“Claude! _dear_ Claude, forgive me,” murmured Mary as she slept that night; raising her pale face from her pillow, and clasping her hands as if she prayed. And often in that long, weary night she would wake with a sudden start, and lifting her eyes toward the crucifix, pray wildly—“Ave Mary! Madonna! help me!” When she would place her hand beneath her pale cheek, weary with her grief, and sleep again, murmuring all the while of Claude—her mother and Heaven. There were no vows of eternal affection exchanged when Mary Norrice and I stood on the shaded piazza of G—— Seminary, watching for the old green coach, which was momentarily expected to take her to her city home. No vows were needed—we loved each other with that trustfulness, that confidingness which asks no pledge. Mary had promised to write me very often, and this I assured her would be a panacea for every human ill. Not quite three months after we left school, I received from Mary the following hastily written letter: “You will make big eyes, Jeannie, dear, when I tell you that I am just about to commit matrimony—only think of _that_! In one little week I am to slip my head into the sacred noose, and who think you is to help me bear the gentle yoke? Arthur Monterey, of whom you have often heard me speak, is the “lucky man,” and though he is a deal older than myself, I dare say we shall learn to love each other very much. He is very handsome, talented, and very much esteemed; but more than all, he is of my own religion—of the same faith as my sainted mother. You will “haste to the wedding” Jeannie, because you remember you long ago promised to act as bride’s-maid on the occasion of this bit of a ceremony. _Au revoir_, Jeannie dear, come to your own, “MARY.” I was not surprised that Mary was to marry a catholic, but I _was_ surprised to hear her speak of learning to love Arthur Monterey—_learn_ to love him! Mary Norrice with her loving, enthusiastic nature, _learn_ to love the man who was to be her husband! The sunlight fell in through the windows of stained glass, glancing upon the high forehead of her betrothed, and bathing in its warm rich light the snowy bridal robes of Mary Norrice. The vows were spoken; a golden circlet glistened on Mary’s finger, and she was bound in joy and sorrow, for “weal or wo,” to go through life’s pathway by the side of Arthur Monterey. Mournfully fell the tones of the organ upon my ear, for in my heart it was two years agone, since I saw Mary standing in the moonlight, and I heard Claude Norrice say in a voice low with despair—“God forgive you, Mary!”