“Until to-day the actual meaning of that charge, to ‘keep as you are,’ never occurred to me. Am I certain that he intended that bit of muslin to typify my faith--faith to him personally? or was it, as I vaguely comprehended it then, faith that I would be the same in my just dealing with his apparent shortcomings? Who can tell? It is six years since he went away. Perhaps he died before seeing his _grandpère_ again. Perhaps he forgot the place where he suffered so much; or found his beautiful ancestral home too lovely to leave. Perhaps--” and this hurt her, but she thought it fair to admit the doubt, “perhaps he fell into evil ways again. And, indeed, had he been all that my dream pictured, would he not, within six years, have found an opportunity to communicate with me? Surely I deserved it.” Then came another question; “Would I have married him, had he come back with a clean record and a demand for my love? Could I have given my life into the hand of an utter stranger, a foreigner of whose race I know no good? Would my father and mother have blessed me and bade me go to my husband’s arms with joy? No, it could not have been, and I could not have done it without. Should Henri return tomorrow for the fulfillment of such a desire, I should bid him leave me. Is it right to marry George Townsend with this secret in my heart? Ought I to reveal it, reveal my doubts and struggles concerning it? No. I should be quite willing to place my hand in his and say, ‘George, whatever thee has in thy heart that thee wishes to tell me, that do I wish to hear; but whatever trials thee has passed through and honestly left behind thee, with those I have no question.’ “Could I let George go from me and live my life alone, without a pang because of his absence? No, I could not. Therefore, O Lord, with a clean heart I will walk beside him, asking daily grace from thy hand, and humbly seeking to serve thee through serving him.” She bathed her flushed face, smoothed the curls away, and went into the garden. There among the sweet-peas and the rich clove-pinks, she laid her hand in that of her lover and simply said: “My heart tells me I will be a true wife unto thee.” The next decade wrought a great change in Dorcas. The vivacity that she had seemed so likely to lose under the stern repression of her parents, assumed the semblance of loving good cheer. Her beauty as a matron surpassed that of her girlhood, and it became a matter of merrymaking in the household that a stranger never passed her without turning to look a second time. Her sweet spirit was overflowing with thankfulness for the great blessing of fervid affection from so manly and upright a companion as George Townsend. Indeed, if ever the taint of pride clung to Dorcas it was when she thought of her husband.