"When shall we return? I want to send a message to my sister."
For all answer he repeated to her the words she had just uttered,
"'Forsaking all others, cleaving only to him,'" and, as he spoke, the train started.
CHAPTER IV.
Grace lay back after parting from Margaret with a sense of having at length got her foot upon sure ground; but there was not that entire sense of satisfaction which she had expected. The remembrance of Margaret's white face and the quivering lips was not pleasant. It was quite Margaret's way to take high ground about everything—she saw everything in an exaggerated way; that came of having such a poetical temperament, which was not always a desirable thing.
In spite of these sensible reflections there was a strong sense of discomfort, and, though Grace tried to shake it off and read and talk to the nurse, that did not help her. The nurse dwelt upon the beautiful bride her sister would be; never for a moment doubting orange-blossom, white satin, and all complete.
Mrs. Dorriman came home late and went into Grace's room with signs of tears, due partly to the sadness of that wedding and partly to fatigue. Grace's light questions jarred upon her. She felt that it had been a terrible sacrifice, and she wished that the sister who understood it so little could be made to appreciate it. "Poor darling Margaret!" said Grace, "did she send me no message?"
"She had no time. I heard her ask him when they should be home—she wished to let you know. I heard his answer. Forsaking all others, cleaving only to him. My mind misgives me, Grace; that poor child will not have all she hopes and expects from him."
"You must not be so doleful, Mrs. Dorriman, it is so very bad for me," said Grace, peevishly.