‘Catherine, could you ever have married a man that did not believe in Christ?’ She flung the question out--a kind of morbid curiosity, a wild wish to find an outlet of some sort for things pent up in her, driving her on. Catherine started. But she met Rose’s half-frowning eyes steadily. ‘Never, Rose! To me it would not be marriage.’ The child’s face lost its softness. She drew one hand away. ‘What have we to do with it?’ She cried. ‘Each one for himself.’ ‘But marriage makes two one,’ said Catherine, pale, but with a firm clearness. ‘And if husband and wife are only one in body and estate, not one in soul, why who that believes in the soul would accept such a bond, endure such a miserable second best?’ She rose. But though her voice had recovered all its energy, her attitude, her look was still tenderness, still yearning itself. ‘Religion does not fill up the soul,’ said Rose slowly. Then she added carelessly, a passionate red flying into her cheek, against her will, ‘However, I cannot imagine any question that interests me personally less. I was curious what you would say.’ And she too got up, drawing her hand lightly along the keyboard of the piano. Her pose had a kind of defiance in it; her knit brows forbade Catherine to ask questions. Catherine stood irresolute. Should she throw herself on her sister, imploring her to speak, opening her own heart on the subject of this wild, unhappy fancy for a man who would never think again of the child he had played with? But the North-country dread of words, of speech that only defines and magnifies, prevailed. Let there be no words, but let her love and watch. So, after a moment’s pause, she began in a different tone upon the inquiries she had been making, the arrangements that would be wanted for this musical winter. Rose was almost listless at first. A stranger would have thought she was being persuaded into something against her will. But she could not keep it up. The natural instinct reasserted itself, and she was soon planning and deciding as sharply, and with as much young omniscience, as usual. By the evening it was settled. Mrs. Leyburn, much bewildered, asked Catherine doubtfully, the last thing at night, whether she wanted Rose to be a professional. Catherine exclaimed. ‘But, my dear,’ said the widow, staring pensively into her bedroom fire, ‘what’s she to do with all this music?’ Then after a second she added half severely: ‘I don’t believe her father would have liked it; I don’t, indeed, Catherine!’ Poor Catherine smiled and sighed in the background, but made no reply. ‘However, she never looks so pretty as when she’s playing the violin; never!’ said Mrs. Leyburn presently in the distance, with a long breath of satisfaction. ‘She’s got such a lovely hand and arm, Catherine! They’re prettier than mine, and even your father used to notice mine.’