“If I loved a man, I should stand by him to the last, no matter what he might think of the—the—Pentateuch—or even Deuteronomy.” And a twinkle danced, for a moment, in her flashing eyes. “What he thought of _Alice_,” added she, with a parenthetical smile, “_that_ would be the main point with _me_. And if he loved me as the Don loves you, I would follow him to the ends of the earth. Yes, and to the end of the world. To the end of the world—and—and—beyond!” A noble devotion illumined her face as she uttered these words, and Mary’s eyes kindled in sympathy. “Then you would marry an unbeliever?” “Mary, if you were to fall into a river, the Don would leap in to save you. You see him battling with waves of another kind—and—you hesitate! Plunge boldly in,—throw your loving arms around—” “Oh!” “Metaphorically speaking!” “Ah!” “Of course!” CHAPTER LXIII. The two friends sat down and talked ever so much more. Alice did not show Charley’s letter to Mary, but before she said good-night she exacted a promise from her to give up her religious warfare upon the Don. Mary meant to keep her word, but the fates were too strong for her. Among her relatives there was a young man—a second cousin, I believe—whose society she greatly enjoyed; for he was well-read, naturally bright, and a capital talker. He had studied law, and, in fact, been admitted to the bar; but he was not strong enough for that laborious profession, and, being an ardent student, soon broke down. During Mary’s stay at Elmington he had had an alarming hemorrhage. This visitation (it had occurred on Christmas Day, too) he looked upon as a call to the ministry, to use the language of the period. And so the man whom she had left, two months before, a bright ambitious young lawyer, she found, on her return, an exceedingly serious theological student. In Virginia, the relations existing between cousins of opposite sex are pleasanter, I believe, than in most other parts of the world. At any rate, these two were almost like brother and sister. What kind of man was this Don? and, most important of all, in his eyes, how did he stand as to the question of questions? It was some time before he got the whole truth out of Mary; partly because she was loath to tell it, partly because, as a Virginian of the period, it was difficult for him to take it in. But it dawned on him by degrees, and gave him all the greater concern, knowing Mary, as he did, so thoroughly. Mary had, in fact, made an exception of him in her sceptical days, and told him everything. And now again (when once the ice was broken) she was as unreserved. She felt that her heart would burst if she could not pour forth her troubles into some sympathetic ear. She had Alice, it is true; but there are many things which a woman would sooner say to a man than to one of her own sex.