"If the Church _forbade_ me to marry him I would of course submit. But what misery it would be to make him endure one hour's suffering from which I might save him. Thank God, I know that there is no _indispensable_ obstacle to my marrying him--it would be _too_ dreadful."
"Take care, Flore, there may be some _indispensable_ obstacle although you know it not."
"Mignonne, wish me joy at having won the love of _such_ a man, rather than suggest obstacles to our happiness; it is a bad omen to hear of nothing but objections on the night of one's betrothal. God knows that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" and again Flora shuddered.
"I do wish you joy, Flora, now and for ever, and I will daily pray that Monsieur Earnscliffe may soon be as firm a believer as you are yourself."
"Thanks, dear Mignonne, it is so unselfish of you to think about me now in the midst of your own trial."
"I was not unselfish a few minutes ago, Flore, when I saw you and Monsieur Earnscliffe together, and his kiss of betrothal imprinted on your brow made me cry; yet indeed it was not that I envied you, Flore, but it made me feel how different everything was for me."
"You need not tell me that it was not envy, Mignonne. I verily believe that you would not know envy if you were to see it, so you might indeed answer with regard to it as Nelson did when somebody spoke to him of fear, 'What's fear? I never saw it.'"
"It is very _gentil_ of you to say so, Flore; but I want to talk about yourself. I want you to tell me all about it,--how long you have cared for Monsieur Earnscliffe; when you discovered that he liked you,--everything, _enfin_."
"It will only pain you, Mignonne,--only recall Florence."
"But it will be such sweet pain, Flore; do tell me?"
"Yes, anything you like, darling," answered Flora, who certainly was just in the mood to-night to do whatever could give anybody pleasure. So they had a long chat over this prolific subject to young ladies--a love affair. Then Flora went in to Mrs. Adair, and nearly an hour passed before she sought her own room.
It was the last on the corridor, and had a balcony looking upon the lake, so she was tempted to go out and look again on the beautiful scene without. To any one Achensee would have looked surpassingly lovely on that clear moonlight night, but to Flora Adair its beauty spoke with one of those voices "which set the inmost music of our souls a-going," singing a song which requires no words, yet breathing a prayer to heaven to be made more worthy of ministering to the object of our love, and to be enabled to make him happy. At length she muttered half aloud, "What bliss it was to hear him say that I had done him good!--my Edwin!"