Maud made this long speech with great deliberation; and the comical twinkle which from time to time appeared in her half-closed eyes did not detract from the serious good faith with which she delivered herself of her matrimonial views. There was a silence after she had spoken, which she herself broke by asking: ‘Well, Aunt Olive, have I not expressed myself well? Do you not think I am very wise and prudent for my age?’ ‘My dear child,’ said Aunt Olive, very earnestly and almost tremulously, ‘if those are your ideas of marriage, do not marry at all.’ ‘Why so, Aunt Olive? Why shouldn’t I marry?’ ‘Because, my dear, marriage is the highest, holiest tie that can bind human lives together—a tie of God’s making, not of man’s, and which must not be lightly or carelessly, or irreverently thought or spoken of. Oh, my dear, dear child,’ and here the little widow’s composure almost gave way, ‘you do not know what you are saying. I think if marriage is not almost perfect happiness—the union of soul with soul—it must be the most miserable state in the world. I could not bear that you should thoughtlessly enter upon it.’ Maud looked earnestly at her aunt, and then rose and crossed the room swiftly and silently. Taking a low footstool at Mrs. Lorraine’s feet, she rested her arms upon her knee, whilst the young face, in all its sweet, fresh trustfulness, was turned inquiringly up to the wrinkled one above, which bore upon it the impress of sorrow borne with bravery and resignation, in the strength of a love stronger than death. ‘Aunt Olive,’ she asked, in the softest, gentlest of tones, ‘were you and Uncle Lorraine so happy as that?’ The question was put with too much tender directness to give pain. It was the tears of sweet, sad memories that filled the widow’s eyes. ‘Yes, Maud, I think so. As I look back to those few years, there does not seem one cloud to overshadow their happiness—I mean clouds from within. We had troubles to bear from without—none are exempted from those, and ours were heavy ones; but in the sunshine of perfect love, Maud, nothing can be a very great trouble. Oh, my dear, precious child, do not marry without that perfect love, that utter union of heart and soul, without which no marriage can be blessed by God.’ Mrs. Lorraine’s face seemed almost to shine. Her gentle timidity had vanished. For a moment she was the stronger woman of the two. ‘I have often wondered, Aunt Olive, how it was you married against grandpapa’s wishes and everyone’s. I think I can understand now.’ ‘Yes, my dear; love gave me strength of purpose. I had given myself to Arthur, and it was impossible to draw back. They say marriages are made in heaven; and I suppose ours was too, for nothing seemed too great a sacrifice to make for one another. It was just as if it had been made for us somewhere, and we had only to do our part.’ ‘Aunt Olive,’ said Maud gently, ‘was Uncle Lorraine very, very good that you loved him so very much?’