It would not be well that the ancient belief in destiny should again bear sway in our time; it is contrary to the thought of the period, and yet hourly, daily, weekly, all our lives, we seem to move, and live, and have our being amidst circumstances that march on and on, and are utterly beyond our power to control or guide. “Circumstances beyond my power to control” is a household phrase—we hear it at the hearth, on the mart, in the council-chamber. And what _are_ circumstances? Why are these apparently trivial things out of our power? Why do they perpetually evolve other circumstances, till a chain forms itself—a net, a web—as visible, and as tangible, as if it had been actually woven by the three sisters of antique mythology. The unseen, awful, inscrutable _necessity_ which, heedless alike of gods and men, marches with irresistible tread through the wonderful dramas of Sophocles, seems to have survived the twilight of the gods, survived the age of miracles and supernatural events. Of all that the ancients venerated and feared, necessity alone remains a factor in modern life. What can our brightest flashes of intelligence, our inventions, our steam engine and telegraph, effect when confronted with those “circumstances over which we have no control?” It is our nineteenth-century euphemism for the Fate of the ancient world. It is not well that we should scrutinise too closely the state of poor Aymer’s mind. His joy and elation before that terrible day were too great not for the fall to be felt severely. The iron of it entered into his soul. For one moment he almost hoped against hope. The clergyman who had officiated at the interrupted bridal came daily to see Violet, and his true piety, his quiet parental manner, soothed and comforted her. He whispered to Aymer that it would be well if the marriage ceremony were completed in private, as could be done by special licence. Aymer naturally grasped at the idea. He had still twenty pounds left of the gift which had been sent to him anonymously. He was eager to spend it upon the special licence, but he confessed that he dared not mention it to Violet. The vicar undertook that task, but failed completely. Violet begged him to spare her—to desist; she could not—not yet. After that day she was more and more tender and affectionate to Aymer, as if to make up to him for his loss. She said that he must take heart—they had no need to be unhappy. In a little while, but not yet—not yet, while that fearful vision was still floating before her eyes. But Aymer must be happy. They had sufficient. _He_ had left them all he had. That was another reason why they should wait, in affection for his memory. They could see each other daily—their future would be together. And Aymer, miserable as he was, was forced to be content.