In another respect they scarcely understood their daughter. Her nature was intensely sensitive and sympathetic. She knew what it was to weep over sorrows that were none of hers, and to be punished for sins which she had not committed. Pain, want, wickedness, and woe were spectres that haunted the girl, and would not let her forget them. Moreover, Mary was grievously beset by doubt, which she endured in loneliness because the least expression of it so shocked those whom she loved that she had not the courage to say all that was in her mind. She had once declared, with flushed face and dilated eyes, on returning from visiting a woman who was dying of cancer, that she did not, could not, would not believe that the poor creatures who were so badly off in this world would be also punished in the next, even for their sins. Her father and mother, secure and comfortable in their church-going consummateness, believing all that they ought to believe, and never troubling themselves further, asked her sternly if she read her Bible now. Truth to tell, she read it very little. She tried to reconcile that which she knew was in it with that which she saw in the world, and finding the two apparently irreconcilable she yielded to unbelief; and because she could not herself believe, began to doubt the honesty of those who did. Poor Mary had lost her child’s faith in the Fatherhood of God, and had failed to apprehend the meaning of the sacrifice of His Son. She sorely needed some one to help her. She was not in the least brave, though she was clever, and had simply drifted into an engagement with Mr. Greenholme. But when the wedding was drawing near she filled her mother with consternation. “Mother,” she said, “I am really not sure that I can marry Alfred after all.” “Oh, my dear child! how you frighten me! What do you mean?” “I don’t believe I care for him as people generally do care when they are going to be married.” “Is there any one else for whom you care, Mary?” “Oh, no, mother! There is not any one whom I like better than Alfred; and he is very kind to me; but I do not want to be married at all.” “That will come right, my dear. I am sure you would not like to be an old maid; no woman does. Oh, yes, you may think now you would not mind, because you are young; but you would be very miserable afterward, and as Alfred’s wife you will have every comfort. You must not think of anything now but your promise.” So the preparations went on, and every one was pleased with Mary. It was to be a quiet wedding. The three bridesmaids—Mary’s girl-friends, the Misses Copeland, Miller, and Whitwell—had arrived on the previous evening, since they all lived some distance from Scourby. Miss Copeland was a tall and graceful young lady who, for some reason or other, appeared ill-tempered and irritable; Miss Miller was quiet and happy; and Miss Whitwell as merry as a cricket.