one, do you love him? one word,
whether or no?"

Just then the light coming in showed Ursula's face, beautiful with more
than happiness, uplifted even with a religious thankfulness, as she
said simply:

"John knows."

CHAPTER XX

In the late autumn, John married Ursula March. He was twenty-one, and
she eighteen. It was very young--too young, perhaps, prudent folk
might say: and yet sometimes I think a double blessing falls on unions
like this. A right and holy marriage, a true love-marriage, be it
early or late, is--must be--sanctified and happy; yet those have the
best chance of happiness, who, meeting on the very threshold of life,
enter upon its duties together; with free, fresh hearts, easily moulded
the one to the other, rich in all the riches of youth, acute to enjoy,
brave and hopeful to endure.

Such were these two--God bless them!

They were married quite privately, neither having any near kindred.
Besides, John held strongly the opinion that so solemn a festival as
marriage is only desecrated by outward show. And so, one golden autumn
morning, Ursula walked quietly up the Abbey aisle in her plain white
muslin gown; and John and she plighted their faithful vows, no one
being present except the Jessops and I. They then went away for a
brief holiday--went away without either pomp or tears, entirely
happy--husband and wife together.

When I came home and said what had happened my good father seemed
little surprised. He had expressly desired not to be told anything of
the wedding till all was over--he hated marriages.

"But since it is done, maybe 'tis as well," said he, grimly. "She
seems a kindly young thing; wise, even--for a woman."

"And pleasant too, father?"

"Ay, but favour is deceitful, and beauty vain. So the lad's gone;" and
he looked round, as if missing John, who had lived in our house ever
since his illness. "I thought as much, when he bade me goodnight, and
asked my leave to take a journey. So he's married and gone! Come,
Phineas, sit thee down by thy old father; I am glad thee wilt always
remain a bachelor."

We settled ourselves, my father and I; and while the old man smoked his
meditative pipe I sat thinking of the winter evenings when we two lads
had read by the fire-side; the summer days when we had lounged on the
garden wall. He was a married man now, the head of a household; others
had a right--the first, best, holiest right--to the love that used to
be all min