“And you love him?” “Yes, darling.” Rose stole her hands up around Sophie’s, and kissed her, exclaiming softly, “Oh! I am so glad, so glad, Sophie, dear Sophie!” They were both silent, because Rose was bending forward before her, holding both her hands and gazing lovingly up into her face. At last she inquired, “And is he gentle and kind—in a word, is he _good_!” “Very good, my little love.” “And handsome?” Sophie smilingly replied, “I think so, darling.” “Is he young?” “Well, _yes_!” “How young?” “Thirty!” “Oh, that is _old_.” “Why, no it is not, darling—except in the estimation of ‘sweet sixteen.’” “And Hagar is married—how funny!—and—how _serious_. What makes me feel so differently about your marriage and about Hagar’s, Sophie? Your marriage—the idea of it fills me with still religious joy, like _church_ music swelling from the deep-toned organ, echoing through the lofty arches and filling one’s soul full of love and awe, tempered by faith. But Hagar’s marriage affects me like martial music that attends the troops in their embarkation—inspiring, animating, but sad, but painful. Now, why is this, why does my heart fill and overflow my eyes, when I think of Hagar’s being a wife; surely it is a happy destiny; and why, tell me why, when I kneel down night and morning to say my prayers, it comes into my head to pray _so earnestly_ for Hagar’s happiness—why do I weep now that Hagar is a happy bride? she is a _happy_ bride, is she not?” “Just as happy as _Hagar_ is capable of being, my love.” “As happy as you are?” “She should be.” “Then why do I feel so?” “I do not know, my love; possibly you feel that Hagar is too wild to make a quiet wife, too fierce to make a loving one, and too self-willed to become a complying one; while on the other hand you rest in the assurance that I am sober and common-place enough to make a quiet fireside comfortable.” “No, that is not it, I never studied that much in my whole life. But how do you feel about it, Sophie?” “My love, I had some of your forebodings, but I had a better reason than instinct for them, and now they are about dissipated. Hagar is naturally wild, fierce, self-willed, and scornful—but she has the very companion I should have selected for her happiness. Raymond is wise, gentle, and firm, or he impresses me in that way. You have never seen Raymond?” “Oh, no! you know, never. Is he like uncle?” “The very opposite in many things.” “There! dear Sophie, now please send Hagar to me. I want to see Hagar so much—but stay! perhaps Hagar might think I ought to go to _her_; she is so proud. But tell her, Sophie, that I am not dressed yet, and that I want so much for her to hug and kiss me here, before I go down to all those strangers.” And Sophie pressed her hands and withdrew from the room.