“Mother,” he said, sternly, after a moment of thought, “after I had seen Salome Howland three times I knew that neither Sadie Rochester nor any other woman could ever be my wife. My whole heart and soul were filled with profoundest love for this girl who had saved my life. If she had refused to marry me I should never have married any one. You charge me with having been hasty. Well, perhaps others would judge me so also; but Salome was ill—Dr. Hunt feared that she would be for a long time—he was afraid of atrophy of the heart. She had no friends, no home; he wanted to get her away from that hospital, and she had nowhere to go and no one to care for her. You know that I am not, have never been, an impulsive man, therefore I was not guided simply by impulse in this very critical decision of my life in determining to make this lovely girl my wife. I loved her; I wanted her. I believed that with proper care she should get well; but I knew that she must be relieved from all care, all anxiety regarding herself—that she must be taken away from that place and from all exciting scenes, where she would be happy and surrounded by tenderness and love. Something—some look or gesture—which I remarked one day when I was with her, made me believe that she might learn to love me, if already she did not. I told her that I wished to make her my wife, and asked her if she would marry me. She demurred at first, and I thought she feared I was only asking her from a feeling of pity and of gratitude for what she had done for me. But I knew that she loved me, from the look of sudden joy that flashed over her pale face and into her eyes, and I was determined that nothing should separate us after that.” “You were very rash and inconsiderate to take such a step without investigating her antecedents,” Madame Winthrop here interposed. “She spoke of that very thing,” Dr. Winthrop replied. “She wanted to tell me everything about herself, for she said she had nothing to conceal from me, only she had had trouble that had obliged her to depend upon her own resources. But she was so frail—it excited her so to talk about it, that I would not allow her to speak of it; and mother, I know that she is a lady—that there is nothing connected with her life that can cast even a shadow upon either her future or mine,” the young physician confidently concluded. “But she is getting well and strong now—there certainly has been time since your marriage for her to tell you all her previous history,” said Miss Winthrop eagerly. “Yes, and she has attempted to do so two or three times during the last week; but our conversation has been interrupted each time. But,” lifting his head proudly, a tender smile upon his lips, “even if she never tells me anything I can trust her; she is one of the purest, truest little women in the world. She has been well educated—well-bred; she is an honor to me as a wife—to you as a daughter and sister.”