He did the only thing a man could do, and that was to take her face between his two hands and kiss her. “Little wife, no secrets from me. Let us begin life so; we shall never regret it.” She closed her eyes, and, putting her hands upon his shoulders, hung her head a little. “It was foolish of me, dear. I have been so happy, and sometimes when one has been very happy—” “The tears come, little wife.” “I have never been very happy till now, John. And just now it came into my heart so suddenly—” She faltered, and he stood looking down at her as he held her in his arms. “Barbara—wife, you felt lonely.” She darted up a look at him as though surprised that he should know. “How do I know, child? Because I had something of the same feeling myself. What a pair of fond fools, eh! No, it is something deeper and more sacred than that.” “Yes, John, I know. But do you think—” “I think a great many things, Barbe.” “Yes; but that I shall make you happy, that I can fill your life for you?” He took her unloosed hair, and put it back from off her forehead. Perhaps he was learning the familiar truth that no being can be more fiercely conscientious and self-critical than a good woman newly married. Fevers of doubt and of introspection rise in her. The surrender is so final, so utter, and the future seems so precious. “Barbe, we have been married not quite a day. Yes—yes—I know. It is the sweet, brave heart in you that is blind to its own worth. Little wife, look in my eyes and see if you see any shadows there.” She looked and smiled. “No, John.” “Then never look for them, dear heart. One’s imagination may create curses. Always speak out; never think in. If I ever hurt you—yet God forbid—tell me so; that can be mended.” She felt for his hands and held them. “I will try always not to think of myself, John.” “Then you will be a very foolish woman, dear, and I shall have to do the thinking for you.” “And you will take me to Thorn to-day?” He looked at her gravely. “You wish that?” “I wish it.” It was still early when John Gore brought the horses to the gate after breakfast and lifted Barbara into her saddle. She wore a plain black riding-habit that morning, a black beaver with a black plume curled round the brim, and a collar of white lace about her throat. The life at Furze Farm had tinted her skin with a brown, pearly haze. She was never a girl for much color, but her lips were red and generous, and her figure more rich in womanliness than of yore.