"Yes," said Anstice very quietly; "I knew and understood."
"Why did you marry me?" he asked her. "Knowing you now, I know that the mercenary side of it could have no weight with you, but at the time, I thought it might."
"I think it was a dream that made me," said Anstice very simply. "The thought of the poor neglected children had most weight with me. I dreamt that they were in an open boat helpless at the mercy of the waves, and calling out to me to rescue them."
"I have wronged you," said Justin; "and I ask your forgiveness."
"No," said Anstice quietly, "that is unnecessary. I have been thinking that I wronged you. I have taken different views of life since I came here, and I think that no two people ought to wed unless there is real love between them. It is binding two souls in chains; you, a man, ought to woo the wife of your choice, not be tied down by legal marriage to one for whom you have no liking, nor perhaps respect."
"Don't talk like that."
Justin's voice was almost sharp.
"I respected you from the first day I saw you. And you must know that I've had more than a liking for you. Well, the long and short of it is, that we have started our married life all wrong, and we're going, I hope, to put it right. Anstice—" he dropped his masterful tone and became almost humble—"there is only one thing that will keep a man's life straight and pure, and that is faith in a woman. I've been without it these many years, and though I've steered away from some evils through natural distaste, I've given myself over to rancour and bitterness and selfishness. You've given me that faith again, Anstice. May God help me to profit by it."
Anstice sat silent. Her eyes were misty, her hands clenched each other tightly, then after a moment she said:
"It is faith in God, not in woman, that you need, Justin. Faulty, erring woman will let you down over and over again."