hard in my face. He was trembling with deep emotion.

"Art thou happy, David?"

"Ay, lad, almost afraid of my happiness. God make me worthy of it, and
of her!"

He lifted his eyes upwards; there was in them a new look, sweet and
solemn, a look which expressed the satisfied content of a life now
rounded and completed by that other dear life which it had received
into and united with its own--making a full and perfect whole, which,
however kindly and fondly it may look on friends and kindred outside,
has no absolute need of any, but is complete in and sufficient to
itself, as true marriage should be. A look, unconsciously fulfilling
the law--God's own law--that a man shall leave father and mother,
brethren and companions, and shall cleave unto his wife, and "they two
shall become one flesh."

And although I rejoiced in his joy, still I felt half-sadly for a
moment, the vague, fine line of division which was thus for evermore
drawn between him and me of no fault on either side, and of which he
himself was unaware. It was but the right and natural law of things,
the difference between the married and unmarried, which only the latter
feel. Which, perhaps, the Divine One meant them to feel--that out of
their great solitude of this world may grow a little inner Eden, where
they may hear His voice, "walking in the garden in the cool of the day."

We went round John's garden; there was nothing Eden-like about it,
being somewhat of a waste still, divided between ancient cabbage-beds,
empty flower-beds, and great old orchard-trees, very thinly laden with
fruit.

"We'll make them bear better next year," said John, hopefully. "We may
have a very decent garden here in time." He looked round his little
domain with the eye of a master, and put his arm, half proudly, half
shyly, round his wife's shoulders--she had sidled up to him, ostensibly
bringing him a letter, though possibly only for an excuse, because in
those sweet early days they naturally liked to be in each other's sight
continually. It was very beautiful to see what a demure, soft, meek
matronliness had come over the high spirit of the "Nut-browne Mayde."

"May I read?" she said, peeping over him.

"Of course you may, little one." A comical pet name for him to give
her, who was anything but small. I could have smiled, remembering the
time when John Halifax bowed to the stately and dignified young
gentlewoman who stood at Mrs. Tod's door. To think he shou