perstitious; but there are some signs that always do come true. Now, when scissors stick into the floor when they fall, I always expect a stranger; and I never saw any good come of singing before breakfast, or going to a wedding in a dark gown; and as for a bride to dress in colors, I think it would be nothing more nor less than a tempting of Providence." Just then, Jerry entered. "Did not I tell you?" said Ruth. "Look there at my scissors sticking up in the floor, and there is Jerry." Jerry came up to me in his peculiar, fidgetty way, expressing his great joy at seeing me, and at Mr. Selmar's return, and presently said, "Well, I suppose your head is in such a whirl, Ruth, that you don't want to answer a question I came to ask you. Perhaps I had better not stay now." "He that is dizzy thinks the world turns round," replied Ruth. "I don't care much, Jerry, for your staying at any time; but I'm not so busy but I have time enough to answer any of your questions. It does not take much wit to answer them, you know." "I wanted to know what time I might come to-morrow," said Jerry. "Better come to breakfast, Jerry," I an swered. "Mr. Selmar has a present for you, that he brought from China, and will be glad I know." to see you, The poor fellow was so delighted, that, in going out, he stumbled headlong over a chair, and actually fell sprawling on the floor. Ruth burst into a hearty laugh, and cried out after him, as he was trying hard to escape her, "Better slip with the foot than the tongue, Jerry." Miss Treville tells me that Ruth's appearance was very droll at the wedding. She put on the white gown over a dark skirt, and, in the strength of her faith that her feet would not show, wore dark stockings. I did not see her, or I should have taken care that she was properly dressed. She stood, she says, with her hands clasped, and her head run out, (you know how tall she is,) looking intently in my face during the whole ceremony, the big tears running fast down her cheeks all the time, and she apparently unconscious of it, till at last she began to sob aloud, when, as I mentioned to you, I heard her. Dear soul! If souls shaped bodies, with all her oddities, what a beautiful form would be hers! I enjoyed the journey, but I was very glad to return home to the actual duties of life. The true value of the ideal is to prepare for the real. If we ascend the mount, in search of inspiration, it must be for the sake of bringing it down with us, to guide and govern us as we pass through the wilderness to the holy land. My father has consented to live with us. He seems very happy, and I hope we shall make his old age comfortable. We have been at home about three weeks. The mornings my husband gives to business, the afternoons and evenings to reading and social enjoyment. Now, dear Fanny, I have a confession to make. I showed your last letter to Edward. We have set out upon the principle to hide nothing, positively nothing, from each other; to have no separate interests, no separate pleasures, no separate duties, any farther than is absolutely necessary. I know that I cannot help him transact his business at the counting-room, neither can he assist me in my household affairs; but whenever, and in whatever way, we can be mutually interested and occupied, we shall act together. Now, it is but fair that you should know this, dear Fanny, as it may influence you in your correspondence with me; but I trust and hope it will not prevent your writing to me with the same confidence as ever. We do not agree with you, that the first assurance of mutual love is the happiest moment, or that all that is poetical and unlimited in love is before marriage. We have, to be sure, been married only six weeks; but we prefer the constant intimacy, the hourly devotion, the entire freedom, the perfect confidence, the serene assurance of reality, which belong to married life, to the feverish delight, the anxious fears, the thrilling pleasures, the fluctuating hopes, the romantic dreams of the most happy courtship. If marriage is what it ought to be, it is the exchange of ideal for real bliss; of uncertain hopes for the most joyful possession; of earthly tumult for heavenly peace. This is our present belief. We do not expect unmingled happiness. We know that we are both very imperfect beings; but we are sure, that if we are only true to each other and to ourselves, we can still love one another, in spite of our defects. This perfect oneness of mind does not imply the loss of individuality. The most perfect harmony is the result not of the repetition of the same notes, but only requires that the different parts should perfectly accord. I |