uch is the history of many a life. I would not have it yours. My dear,
we will now walk about a little, if you please."

They both rose, and slowly paced a green natural terrace bordering the
chasm.

"My dear," ere long again began Mrs. Pryor, a sort of timid, embarrassed
abruptness marking her manner as she spoke, "the young, especially those
to whom nature has been favourable, often--frequently--anticipate--look
forward to--to marriage as the end, the goal of their hopes."

And she stopped. Caroline came to her relief with promptitude, showing a
great deal more self-possession and courage than herself on the
formidable topic now broached.

"They do, and naturally," she replied, with a calm emphasis that
startled Mrs. Pryor. "They look forward to marriage with some one they
love as the brightest, the only bright destiny that can await them. Are
they wrong?"

"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, clasping her hands; and again she
paused. Caroline turned a searching, an eager eye on the face of her
friend: that face was much agitated. "My dear," she murmured, "life is
an illusion."

"But not love! Love is real--the most real, the most lasting, the
sweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know."

"My dear, it is very bitter. It is said to be strong--strong as death!
Most of the cheats of existence are strong. As to their sweetness,
nothing is so transitory; its date is a moment, the twinkling of an eye.
The sting remains for ever. It may perish with the dawn of eternity, but
it tortures through time into its deepest night."

"Yes, it tortures through time," agreed Caroline, "except when it is
mutual love."

"Mutual love! My dear, romances are pernicious. You do not read them, I
hope?"

"Sometimes--whenever I can get them, indeed. But romance-writers might
know nothing of love, judging by the way in which they treat of it."

"Nothing whatever, my dear," assented Mrs. Pryor eagerly, "nor of
marriage; and the false pictures they give of those subjects cannot be
too strongly condemned. They are not like reality. They show you only
the green, tempting surface of the marsh, and give not one faithful or
truthful hint of the slough underneath."

"But it is not always slough," objected Caroline. "There are happy
marriages. Where affection is reciprocal and sincere, and minds are
harmonious, marriage _must_ be happy."

"It is never wholly happy. Two people can never literally be as one.
There is, perhaps, a possibili