“Oh, that is all superstitious nonsense!” she cried, vehemently. “You must be happy; you shall be happy; the world must not lose your Art; I will save it.”
“But the cost to yourself,” he faltered.
“I will pay the price. You love me. For me to ruin your life—that would be sin.”
She drew his head to her bosom and smoothed back the curly hair from his forehead.
“My dear, my dear,” she murmured.
He gulped back the lump in his throat. “No, this is not sin. You have redeemed me; I never felt so at peace with all things,” he said, in low, religious tones. “Oh, we will shame the world—we will live high and true. Our happiness shall radiate to all that sorrows and suffers. Our home shall be the home of Art. It shall stand open to all the young artists striving faithfully in poverty—it shall be a centre of blessing. Suffering has made me morose, now I feel at one with my kind, longing to do my truest work. Oh, God bless you, my dear.”
A startled look of alarm had come into her face. She loosed her embrace of him.
“But, Matt! We cannot have a home.”
He had a chill of apprehension, which even the sweetness of that first clipping of his name could not counteract.