"At all events it is well to have a witness." She slipped her soft little hand into mine as we left the room; and so, conducted by Mrs. Williams, we passed from one room to another. My darling's delight was genuine. Her child-like pleasure at all she saw was delicious to me to watch. She was incessant in her praises of Mrs. Williams' taste and orderliness; and to do that good woman justice, she deserved all the admiration she received. She listened complacently to Geraldine's prattle; and when she found that she was no longer required, slipped quietly away. We stood at the drawing-room window. She had thrown aside her hat, and the sunlight made gold of her beautiful hair. "Do you like Elmore Court?" I asked. "It is a sweet home." "And do you think you will be happy here?" "Cannot you guess? I feel perfectly happy now, Arthur; and that implies great trust in you--if I did not think you loved me with all your strength I could not be happy. Yet there was a time when I thought I could never be happy again--never happy again," she repeated, with a little sigh. "It was winter with me then, but it is summer now. It is sweet to be loved. There are women who say they could live without love; but I do not believe them. Women were born to be loved." "Some women were," I answered, toying with her hand. "I have been very lonely, Arthur. Sometimes I thought I should go mad. It is bad for the mind to feed upon itself. The longer its abstinence the more painful grows its craving; and to satisfy itself at last, it invents strange fancies and dreadful thoughts--and that is how people become crazy. Your face and voice are a new life to me. I feel that I am not dead now. But there have been times when I thought myself a ghost. Did you ever have that feeling? It always brought a pain here;" she touched her forehead. "See there!" she suddenly exclaimed, "what a beautiful butterfly! If I were a little girl I should love to chase it. But I would not now," she added, shaking her head; "those who have suffered much are always merciful." "Now, Geraldine, I want to speak to you of our marriage." "Yes." She looked up. "Are you not a Roman Catholic?" "I am. Do you like Roman Catholics?" "Quite as well as Protestants, though I am a stanch Protestant." "After all we are agreed upon the chief points of religion?" "Very nearly. Toleration is the most material point in which we differ. But Christianity is the religion of love; and love is large and can find room for many sects. But to revert to our wedding--we shall have to be married in two churches." "I know." "Is there a Roman Catholic church here?" "No. But there is one at Cornpool. I know Father John; he is my confessor." "How often do you confess?" "I do not like to say," she replied, timidly; "it is not often enough." "Once a year?" "Oh, Arthur, no! Once a month." "So often?" "So often! I should confess by right once a week. Would you mind me going to Father John?" "No."