eemed to
disappear, she looked in Arthur's face and saw, waiting for her, love
and tenderness, with such joy of congenial companionship as for the
moment eclipsed every other consideration. Oh, surely no life was worth
having compared with one spent with him! Her mind ran swiftly over a
dozen possibilities, and in each found a happy solution. Whatever
happened, she could not fail to be content if Arthur were near. He was
so good, so strong, so radiant, that his very presence was a guarantee
of happiness, of something more than happiness, for, with all his
brightness of manner, there was an underlying nobility in Arthur
Saville's character which Rosalind recognised and longed after in the
depths of her vacillating heart. She could be a better woman as his
wife than in any other sphere in life; if she rejected him, she would
reject also her own best chance of becoming a good woman. She knew it,
and a little chill, as of fear, ran through her veins as she
acknowledged as much to herself, for at the bottom of her heart she knew
something else also. She knew that when it came to the point she had no
intention of marrying Arthur Saville. It was sweet to look into his
face and dream for a moment of what might be, but the chains of the
world were too heavy to be broken; the prize for which she had longed
was within her grasp, and she could not throw it aside. The good spirit
spread her wings and flew sadly away, for when a human being sees with
clear eyes the opening of the roads, and deliberately turns in the wrong
direction, the angel who must then step forward to bear her company is
no longer white-robed, but wears a weary countenance and sombre garment.
Sometimes we call her Pain, and sometimes Experience, and there is no
welcome waiting for her where she goes, though sometimes, looking back
over the years, we bless her in our hearts, and realise that she has
taught us lessons which her bright-robed sister was powerless to instil.

The shadow of future suffering seemed already on Rosalind's beautiful
face as she raised it to Arthur's, and cried tremblingly:

"Arthur, I cannot! I love you dearly, but I cannot face it! Evewy one
would be so surpwised--so astonished! They would laugh at me behind my
back, and mother would bweak her heart--and--and--oh, I couldn't bear to
give up so much! I could not be happy seeing other people doing things,
and not being able to do them myself. I could not endure to be poor.
If