University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
I WIN A WIFE AND HOME OF MY OWN, AND THE MANSION LOSES
AND GAINS A MISTRESS.

In those early days, professional study was carried on very
generally without the aid of professional schools; and during
my three years at the academy, accomplished with sufficient
pecuniary success, I read all the elementary books of the profession
I had chosen, and, at the close, was admitted to the
bar, after an examination which placed me at once at the head
of the little clique of young men who had fitted themselves for
the same pursuit. Henry, meantime, had realized a wish, long
secretly cherished, to study divinity, and, under a license from
the ministerial association of the county, had preached many
times in the vacant pulpits of the city and the surrounding
country. Mrs. Sanderson always went to hear him when the
distance did not forbid her; and I suppose that the city did
not hold two young men of more unwearied industry than ourselves.

My acquaintance with Millie Bradlord ripened into confidential
friendship, and, so far as I was concerned, into something
warmer and deeper, yet nothing of love was ever alluded to between
us. I saw that she did not encourage the advances of
other young men which were made upon every side, and I was
quite content to let matters rest as they were, until my prospects
for life were more definite and reliable than they were
then. We read the same books, and talked about them. We
engaged in the same efforts to arouse the spirit of literary culture
and improvement in the neighborhood. In the meantime
her womanhood ripened day by day, and year by year, until she

became the one bright star of my life. I learned to look at my
own character and all my actions through her womanly eyes.
I added her conscience to my own. I added her sense of that
which was proper and becoming and tasteful to my own.
Through her sensibilities I learned to see things finely, and by
persuasions which never shaped themselves to words, I yielded
myself to her, to be led to fine consummations of life and
character. She was a being ineffably sacred to me. She was
never associated in my mind with a coarse thought. She lifted
me into a realm entirely above the atmosphere of sensuality,
from which I never descended for a moment; and I thank
God that I have never lost that respect for woman which she
taught me.

I have seen, since those days, so charged with pure and precious
memories, many women of unworthy aims, and low and
frivolous tastes, yet I have never seen anything that bore the
form of woman that did not appeal to my tender consideration.
I have never seen a woman so low that her cry of distress or
appeal for protection did not stir me like a trumpet, or so base
that I did not wish to cover her shame from ribald eyes, and
restore her to that better self which, by the grace of her nature,
can never be wholly destroyed.

Soon after the term had closed which severed the connection
of Claire and myself with the academy, I was made half wild
with delight by an invitation, extended to Henry and Claire, as
well as to Millie and myself, to visit Hillsborough, and join the
Bird's Nest in their biennial encampment. I knew every rod
of ground around the beautiful mountain-lake upon whose
shores the white tents of the school were to be planted, for,
though six miles away from my early school, I had visited it
many times during holidays, and had sailed and angled and
swam upon its waters. For many years it had been Mr. Bird's
habit, at stated intervals, to take his whole school to this lovely
spot during the fervors of the brief New England summer and
to yield a fortnight to play. The boys looked forward to this
event, through the long months of their study, with the most

charming anticipations, and none of them could have been
more delighted with the prospect than Henry and myself. We
were now the old boys going back, to be looked at and talked
about by the younger boys. We were to renew our boyhood
and our old associations before undertaking the professional
work of our lives.

As both Mr. Bradford and my father trusted Mr. and Mrs.
Bird, it was not difficult to obtain their consent that Millie and
Claire should accompany us; and when the morning of our
departure arrived, we were delighted to find that we should be
the only occupants of the old stage-coach which was to bear us
to our destination. The day was as beautiful as that on which
my father and I first made the journey over the same route.
The objects along the way were all familiar to Henry and myself,
but it seemed as if we had lived a whole lifetime since we
had seen them. We gave ourselves up to merriment. The
spirit of play was upon us all; and the old impassive stage-driver
must have thought us half insane. The drive was long,
but it might have been twice as long without wearying us.

I was going back to the fountain from which I had drunk
so much that had come as a pure force into my life. Even the
privilege to play, without a thought of work, or a shadow of
care and duty, I had learned from the teachings of Mr. Bird. I
had been taught by him to believe—what many others had endeavoured
to make me doubt—that God looked with delight
upon his weary children at play,—that the careless lambs that
gambolled in their pasture, and the careless birds singing and
flying in the air, were not more innocent in their sports than
men, women and children, when, after work faithfully done,
they yielded to the recreative impulse, and with perfect freedom
gave themselves to play. I believed this then, and I believe it
still; and I account that religion poor and pitiful which ascribes
to the Good Father of us all less delight in the free and careless
sports of his children than we take in the frolic of our
own.

The whole school was out to see the new-comers when we

arrived, and we were received literally with open arms by the
master and mistress of the establishment. Already the tents
and cooking utensils had gone forward. A few of the older
boys were just starting on foot for the scene of the fortnight's
play, to sleep in neighboring barns, so as to be on the ground
early to assist in raising the tents. They could have slept in
beds, but beds were at a discount among lads whose present
ambition was to sleep upon the ground. The whole building
was noisy with the notes of preparation. Food was preparing
in incredible quantities, and special preparations were in progress
for making Millie and Claire comfortable; for it was supposed
that “roughing it” was something foreign to their taste
and experience.

On the following morning, I was roused from my dreams by
the same outcry of the boys to which I had responded, or in
which I had joined, for a period of five happy years. I was
obliged to rub my eyes before I could realize that more than
seven years lay between me and that golden period. When at
last I remembered how, under that roof, breathed the woman
dearer to me than all the rest of the world, and that for two
precious weeks she would be my companion, amid the most
enchanting scenes of nature, and under circumstances so fresh
and strange as to touch all her sensibilities, I felt almost guilty
that I could not bring to Mr. and Mrs. Bird an undivided
heart, and that The Bird's Nest, and the lake, and the camp-fires,
and the free life of the wilderness would be comparatively
meaningless to me without her.

Our breakfast was a hurried one. The boys could hardly
wait to eat anything, and started off by pairs and squads to
make the distance on foot. A huge lumber-wagon, loaded with
supplies, was the first carriage dispatched. Then those who
would need to ride took their seats in such vehicles as the
school and village afforded, and the straggling procession moved
on its way. Henry and I spurned the thought of being carried,
and took our way on foot. We had not gone half the distance,
however, when Millie and Claire insisted on joining us. So

our little party bade the rest good-by, and we were left to take
our own time for the journey.

We were the last to arrive at the encampment, and the sun
was already hot in the sky. Poor Claire was quite exhausted,
but Millie grew stronger with every step. The flush of health
and happiness upon her face drew forth a compliment from
Mr. Bird which deepened her color, and made her more charming
than ever. The life was as new to her as if she had exchanged
planets; and she gave herself up to it, and all the
pleasant labor which the provision for so many rendered necessary,
with a ready and hearty helpfulness that delighted every one.
She could not move without attracting a crowd of boys. She
walked and talked with them; she sang to them and read to
them; and during the first two or three days of camp-life, I began
to fear that I should have very little of her society.

The days were not long enough for our pleasures. Bathing,
boating, ball-playing and eating through the day, and singing
and story-telling during the evening, constituted the round of
waking delights, and the nights, cool and sweet, were long
with refreshing and dreamless slumber.

There is no kinder mother than the earth, when we trustfully
lay our heads upon her bosom. She holds balm and
blessing for the rich and the poor, for the hardy and the dainty
alike, which the bed of luxury never knows. Pure air to
breathe, pure water to drink and a pillow of stone—ah! how
easy it is for the invisible ministers of health and happiness to
build ladders between such conditions and heaven!

Far back over the dim years that have come between, I see
those camp-fires glowing still, through evenings full of music
and laughter. I see the groups of merry boys dancing around
them. I hear their calls for Echo to the woods, and then, in
the pauses, the plash of oars, as some group of late sailors
comes slowly in, stirring the lake into ripples that seem phosphorescent
in the firelight. I watch those fires crumbling
away, and dying at last into cloudy darkness, or into the milder
moonlight which then asserts its undivided sway, and floods

lake and forest and mountain, and all the night-sweet atmosphere
with its steady radiance. I see the tent in which my
sister and my love are sleeping, and invoke for them the guardian
care of God and all good angels. I go at last to my own
tent, and lie down to a sleep of blessed, blank unconsciousness,
from which I am roused by the cry of healthy lungs that
find no weariness in play, and by the tramping of feet around
me that spring to the tasks and sports of the day with unflagging
appetite and interest.

Did Mr. and Mrs. Bird know how much pleasure they were
giving to the young life around them? Did they know that
they were enabling us all to lay up memories more precious
than gold? Did they know they were developing a love of
nature and of healthful and simple pleasures that should be a
constant guard around those young feet, when they should find
themselves among the slippery places of life and the seductive
influences of artificial society. Did they know that making
the acquaintance of the birds and flowers and open sky and
expanding water and rough life was better than the culture and
restraint of drawing-rooms? Did they know that these boys,
deprived of this knowledge and these influences, would go
through life lacking something inexpressibly valuable? Surely
they did, or they would not have sacrificed labour and care and
comfort to achieve these objects and results. A thousand
blessings on you, my wise, patient, self-sacrificing friends! It
is no wonder that all who have lived under your ceaseless and
self-devoted ministry love you!

The moon was new when we went into camp, and as it grew
larger the weather grew finer, until, as the fortnight waned, it
came to its glorious full, on a night whose events made it forever
memorable to me.

I do not know why it is that a boy, or a collection of boys,
is so keen in the discovery of tender relations between young
men and young women, but I think that, from the first, the
school understood exactly the relations of Henry to Claire
and of Millie to myself. There was a lively family interest in

us all, and the young rogues seemed to understand that matters
were all settled between the former pair, and that they
had not reached a permanent adjustment between the latter.
Henry and Claire could always be with each other without interruption.
They could go down to the shore at any time of
the day or evening, enter a boat, and row out upon the lake,
and find nothing to interfere with their privacy; but Millie and
I could never approach a boat without finding half a dozen
little fellows at our side, begging to be taken out with us upon
the water. There was always mischief in their eyes, and an
evident wish to make the course of true love rough to us.
There was something so amusing in all this, to me, that I never
could get angry with them, but Millie was sometimes disturbed
by their good-natured persecutions.

On one of the later evenings, however, Millie and I took
advantage of their momentary absorption in some favorite
game, and quietly walked to the shore, unnoticed by any of
them. She took her seat in the boat, and, shoving it from the
sand, I sprang in after her, and we were afloat and free upon the
moonlit water. For some minutes I did not touch the oars, but
let the boat drift out with the impulse I had given it, while we
watched the outlines of the white tents against the sky, and the
groups which the camp-fires made fantastic.

It was the first time, since our residence at the camp, that I
had been alone with her under circumstances which placed us
beyond hearing and interruption. I had been longing and
laboring for this opportunity, and had determined to bring
matters between us to a crisis. I had faithfully tried to do
those things and to adopt those plans and purposes of life
which would command her respect and confidence. I had
been so thoroughly sincere, that I had the consciousness of
deserving her esteem, even though her heart might not have
been drawn toward me with any tenderer regard. I had been
in no haste to declare my passion, but the few days I had
spent with her in camp had so ripened and intensified it, that
I saw I could not carry it longer, uncertain of its issue, without

present torment or prospective danger. It seemed, sometimes
to my great horror, as if my life hung entirely upon hers—as if
existence would be a curse without her companionship.

After a while spent in silence and a strange embarrassment,
I took the oars, and as quietly as possible rowed out into the
middle of the lake. The deep blue sky and the bright moon
were above us, and the pure water below; and all the sounds
that came to us from the shore were softened into music.

At last I broke the spell that had held my voice with what I
intended for a common-place, and said: “It seems a comfort
to get away from the boys for a little while, doesn't it!”

“Does it?” she responded. “You know you have the
advantage of me; I haven't that pleasure yet.”

“Oh! thank you,” I said. “I didn't know that you still
regarded me as a boy.”

“You were to remain a boy, you know. Didn't you promise?
Have you forgotten?”

“Have I fulfilled my promise?”

“Yes, after a weary time.”

“And you recognize the boy again, do you?”

“I think so.”

“Are you pleased?”

“I have no fault to find, at least.”

“And you are the same girl I used to know?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Does the fact forbid us to talk as men and women talk?”

“We are here to play,” she replied, “and I suppose we
may play that we are man and woman.”

“Very well,” I said, “suppose we play that we are man and
woman, and that I am very fond of you and you are very fond
of me.”

“It seems very difficult to play this, especially when one of
us is so very much in earnest.”

“Which one?”

“The one who wishes to play.”

“Ah! Millie,” I said, “you really must not bandy words

with me. Indeed, I am too much in earnest to play. I
have a secret to tell you, and this is my first good opportunity
to tell it, and you must hear it.”

“A secret? do you think so? I doubt it.”

“Do you read me so easily?”

She reached out her hand upon the water to grasp a dark
little object, past which we were slowly drifting, and broke off
from its long, lithe stem a water-lily, and tossed it to my
feet. “There's a secret in that little cone,” she said, “but I
know what it is as well as if the morning sun had unfolded it.”

“Do you mean to say that my secret has opened under the
spell of your eyes every day like the water-lily to the sun?”

“Yes, if you insist on putting it in that very poetical way.”

“Are you fond of water-lilies?”

“Very: fonder of them than of any other flower I know.”

“Well,” I responded, “I'm a man, or a boy—just which
you choose—and don't pretend to be a water-lily, though I
wish my roots were as safely anchored and my life as purely
surrounded and protected. I believe that maidenhood monopolizes
all the lilies for its various impersonations, but for
the present purpose, I should really like to ask you if you
are willing to take the water-lily for the one flower of your
life, with all its secrets which you claim to understand so fully.”

“Charmingly done,” she said—“for a boy.”

“You taunt me.”

“No, Arthur,” she responded, “but you really are hurrying
things so. Just think of trying to settle everything in five
minutes, and think, too, of the inconvenience of this little
boat. You cannot get upon your knees without upsetting
us, and then you know I might be compelled to adopt a water-lily.”

“Particularly if the lily should save your life.”

“Yes.”

“Suppose we go ashore.”

“Not for the world.”

“Ah! Millie, I think I know your secret,” I said.

“It isn't hard to discover.”

“Well, then let's not talk in riddles any more. I love you
more than life, Millie! may I continue to love you?”

She paused, and I saw tears upon her face, glittering in the
moonlight.

“Yes,” she said, “always.”

“Thank you! thank God!” I said with a hearty impulse.
“Life is all bright to me now, and all full of promise. I
wish I could come to you and close this business in the good
old orthodox fashion.”

She laughed at my vexation, and counseled patience.

There is something very provoking about the coolness of a
woman under circumstances like those in which I found
myself. For many days I had permitted myself to be wrought
into an exalted state of feeling. Indeed, I had been mustering
strength for this interview during all the time I had lived in
the camp. I was prepared to make a thousand protestations
of everlasting devotion. I was ready to cast at her feet my
hopes, my life, my all; yet she had anticipated everything, and
managed to hold the conversation in her own hands. Then
she apparently took delight in keeping me at my end of the
boat, and in dissuading me from my ardent wish to reach the
shore. I said I thought it was time for us to return. She
protested. The people would miss us, I assured her, and
would be apprehensive that we had met with an accident. She
was equally sure that they would not miss us at all. Besides,
if they should, a little scare would give piquancy to the night's
pleasure, and she would not like to be responsible for such a
deprivation. In truth, I think she would have been delighted
to keep me on the lake all night.

I finally told her that I held the oars, that if she wished to
remain longer she would accommodate me by jumping overboard,
and assured her that I would faithfully deliver her last
messages. As she made no movement, I dipped my oars and
rowed toward the dying lights of the camp-fires, congratulating
myself that I should land first, and help her from the boat.

Under the sheltering willows, I received her into my arms,
and gave her my first lover's kiss. We walked to her tent
hand in hand, like children, and there, while the boys gathered
round us to learn where we had been, and to push their
good-natured inquiries, I bent and gave her a good-night kiss,
which told the whole story to them all.

It seems strange to me now that I could have done so, and
that she would have permitted it, but it really was so like a
family matter, in which all were interested in the most friendly or
brotherly way, that it was quite the natural thing to do. Millie
immediately disappeared behind her muslin walls, while I was
overwhelmed with congratulations. Nor was this all. One
little fellow called for three cheers for Miss Bradford, which were
given with a will; and then three cheers were given to Arthur
Bonnicastle; and as their lungs were in practice, they cheered
Henry and Claire, and Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and wound up that
part of their exercise by three cheers for themselves. Then
they improvised a serenade for the invisible lady, selecting
“Oft in the stilly night,” and “The Pirate's Serenade,” as
particularly appropriate to the occasion, and went to their
beds at last only under the peremptory commands of Mr. Bird.

There were two persons among the fifty that lay down upon
the ground that night who did not sleep very soundly, though
the large remainder slept, I presume, much as usual. I had
lain quietly thinking over the events of the evening, and trying
to realize the great blessing I had won, when, at about two
o'clock in the morning, I heard the word “Arthur” distinctly
pronounced. Not having removed all my clothing, I leaped
from my blanket, and ran to the door of the tent. There I
heard the call again, and recognized the voice of Millie Bradford.

“Well, what is it?” I said.

“There is some one about the camp.”

By this time Henry was on his feet and at my side, and both
of us went out together. We stumbled among the tent-stakes
in different directions, and at last found a man so muddled with

liquor that he hardly knew where he was. We collared him,
and led him to our tent, where we inquired of him his business.
As he seemed unable to tell us, I searched his pockets for the
bottle which I presumed he bore about him somewhere, and in
the search found a letter, the address of which I read with the
expectation of ascertaining his name. Very much to my surprise,
the letter was addressed to Henry. Then the whole
matter became plain to me. He had been dispatched with this
letter from Hillsborough, and on the way had fallen in with dissolute
companions, though he had retained sufficient sense to
know that the camp was his destination,

Henry broke the seal. The letter was from his mother, informing
him that Mrs. Sanderson was very ill, and that she desired
his immediate return to Bradford. I entered Mr. Bird's
tent and told him of the letter, and then satisfied the curiosity
of Millie and Claire. In such clothing as we could snatch
readily from our tents we gathered for a consultation, which resulted
in the conclusion that any sickness which was sufficiently
serious to call Henry home, was sufficient to induce the entire
Bradford party to accompany him. He protested against this,
but we overruled him. So we simply lay down until daylight,
and then rose for a hurried breakfast. Mr. Bird drove us to
Hillsborough, and at seven o'clock we took the stage for home.

The ride homeward was overshadowed by a grave apprehension,
and the old driver probably never had a quieter fare over
his route, than the party which, only a few days before, had astonished
him by their hilarity.

On reaching Bradford we found our worst fears realized.
The old lady was rapidly declining, and for three days had been
vainly calling for her grandson. When he arrived he brought to
her a great flood of comfort, and with her hand in his, she descended
into the dark valley. What words she spoke I never
knew. I was only sure that she went out of her earthly life in
an atmosphere of the most devoted filial affection, that words
of Christian counsel and prayer were tenderly spoken to her
deafening senses, and that hands bathed in tears closed her eyes.

The funeral was the largest and most remarkable I had ever
seen in Bradford, and Henry went back to his home, its owner
and master.

On the day following the funeral my father was summoned to
listen to the reading of Mrs. Sanderson's will. We were all
surprised at this, and still more surprised to learn, when he returned,
that the house in which he lived had been bequeathed
to him, with an annuity which would forever relieve me from
supporting him after he should cease to labor. This I knew to
be Henry's work. My father was the father of his future wife,
and to save him the mortification of being dependent on his
children, he had influenced Mrs. Sanderson to do that which he
or I should be obliged to do at some time not far in the future.

My father was very grateful and tearful over this unexpected
turn in his fortunes. My mother could not realize it at all, and
was sure there must be some mistake about it. One of the
most touching things in the prayer offered that night at our
family altar was the earnest petition by this simple and humble
saint, that his pride might not be nourished by this good fortune.

After this the matter came to a natural shape in the good
man's mind. It was not Mrs. Sanderson's gift. She had been
only the almoner of Providence. The God whom he had
trusted, seeing that the time of helplessness was coming, had
provided for his necessities, and relieved him of all apprehension
of want, and more than all, had relieved me of a burden.
Indeed, it had only fulfilled a life-long expectation. His natural
hopefulness would have died amid his hard life and circumstances
if it had not fed itself upon dreams.

I am sure, however, that he never felt quite easy with his
gift, so long as he lived, but carried about with him a sense of
guilt. Others—his old companions in labor—were not blessed
with him, and he could not resist the feeling that he had wronged
them. They congratulated him on his “luck,” as they called
it, for they were all his friends; but their allusions to the matter
always pained him, and he had many an hour of torment over

the thought that some of them might think him capable of forgetting
them, and of pluming his pride upon his altered circumstances.

It was, perhaps, a fortnight after the death of Mrs. Sanderson,
that Henry came to my father's house one morning, and
asked me when I intended to begin business. I informed
him that I had already been looking for an eligible office, and
that I should begin the practice of the law as soon as the opportunity
should come. Then he frankly told me that looking
after his multiplied affairs was very distasteful to him, and that
he wished, as soon as possible, to place everything in my hands.
He advised me to take the best and most central chambers I
could find, and offered me, at little more than a nominal rent,
a suite of rooms in one of his own buildings. I took the rooms
at once, and furnished them with such appointments and books
as the savings of three industrious years could command, and
Henry was my first, as he has remained my constant, client.
The affairs of the Sanderson estate, of which I knew more than
any man except Mrs. Sanderson's lawyer, were placed in my
hands, where they remain at this present writing. The business
connected with them was quite enough for my support in those
days of moderate expenses and incomes, but it brought me so
constantly into contact with the business men of the city that,
gradually, the tide of legal practice set towards me, until, in
my maturer years, I was almost overwhelmed by it. I was energetic,
enthusiastic, persevering, indomitable, and successful;
but amid all my triumphs there was nothing that gave me such
pure happiness as my father's satisfaction with my efforts.

I never engaged in an important public trial for many years,
in which he was not a constant attendant at the court-house.
All the lawyers knew him, and my position commanded a seat
for him inside the bar. Every morning he came in, leaning on
his cane, and took the seat that was left or vacated for him,
and there, all day long, he sat and watched me. If for a day
he happened to be absent, I missed the inspiration of his interested
face and approving eyes, as if he were a lover. My

office was his lounging-place, and my public efforts were his
meat and drink. A serener, sweeter old age than his I never
saw, and when, at last, I missed him—for death came to him
as it comes to all—I felt that one of the loveliest lights of my
life had gone out. I have never ceased to mourn for him, and
I would not cease to mourn for him if I could.

A year after I commenced the practice of my profession, Mr.
Grimshaw exhausted his narrow lode and went to mine in other
fields. Naturally, Henry was called upon to fill temporarily
the vacant pulpit, and quite as naturally, the people learned in
a few weeks that they could serve themselves no better than by
calling him to a permanent pastorate. This they did, and as
he was at home with them, and every circumstance favored his
settlement over them, he accepted their invitation. On the
day of his ordination—a ceremony which was very largely attended—he
treated his new people to a great surprise. Before
the benediction was pronounced, he descended from the pulpit,
took his way amid the silence of the congregation to my father's
pew, and then led my sister Claire up the broad aisle to where
an aged minister stood waiting to receive them, and join them
in holy wedlock. The words were few which united these two
lives that had flowed in closely parallel currents through so
long a period, but they were spoken with great feeling, and
amid the tears of a crowd of sympathetic friends. So the church
had once more a pastor, and The Mansion once more a mistress;
and two widely divided currents of the Bonnicastle blood
united in the possession and occupation of the family estate.

I do not need to give the details of my own marriage, which
occurred a few months later, or of our first experiments at
house-keeping in the snug home which my quick prosperity enabled
me to procure, or of the children that came to bless us
in the after-years. The memory of these events is too sweet
and sacred to be unveiled, and I cannot record them, though
my tears wet the paper as I write. The freshness of youth has
long passed away, the silver is stronger than the jet among the
curls of the dear woman who gave herself to me, and bore in

loving pain, and reared with loving patience, my priceless flock
of children; my own face is deeply furrowed by care and labor
and time; but those days of young love and life never come
back to me in memory save as a breeze across a weary sea
from some far island loaded with odors of balm and whispers
of blessing.

Thank God for home and woman! Thank God a thousand
times for that woman who makes home her throne! When I
remember how bright and strong a nature my young wife possessed—how
her gifts and acquirements and her whole personality
fitted her to shine in society as a center and a sun—and
then recall her efforts to serve and solace me, and train my children
into a Christian manhood and womanhood, until my house
was a heaven, and its presiding genius was regarded with a love
that rose to tender adoration—I turn with pity, not unmingled
with disgust, from those I see around me now, who cheapen
marriage, the motherly office and home, and choose and advocate
courses and careers of life independent of them all.

Neither Henry's marriage nor my own was in the slightest
degree romantic—hardly romantic enough to be of interest to
the average reader.

It was better so. Our courtships were long and our lives
were so shaped to each other that when marriage came it was
merely the warrant and seal of a union that had already been
established. Each lover knew his love, and no misunderstandings
supervened. The hand of love, by an unconscious process,
had shaped each man to his mate, each woman to her
mate, before they were joined, and thus saved all after-discords
and collisions. All this may be very uninteresting to outsiders,
but to those concerned it was harmony, satisfaction and peace.