Once more she clung to me trembling in her deep emotion; but silently this time, and believing that she was asking for strength to go on, I waited until she was able to do so. Although I knew now that she loved Philip—it was as plain to me as that he loved her—I thought it better to let her herself lead up to what she wanted to say. It would comfort her by-and-by to remember she had been able to say it. Presently she looked up into my face, a holy light in the sweet eyes as they steadily met mine.
'Mary, you have not told me when your wedding is to take place. Recollect, you must give me at least a week's notice for my dress. I do not choose you to have a shabby bride's-maid. No, indeed; I mean every one to see that—she loves you. Is the time fixed?'
'Philip wished me to decide last night, and—something was said about next week, dearie.'
'I am glad it is settled, Mary;' with grave earnestness, her eyes still fixed upon mine.
'But—I am afraid it will shock you very much to hear it—someway, I do not care to think about it.'
She grew whiter, clinging closer to me as she echoed: 'Not care to think about it!—your marriage?'
I steadied myself. One weak word—a look—and all would be in vain.
'It does seem a little strange even to myself. But to confess the truth' (I could hardly keep back a bitter smile at the thought of the truth helping me so), 'I had scarcely promised Philip an hour, before I began to think I would put it off.'
'Why?' she murmured—'why?'
'It is so difficult to explain the workings of one's own mind. I am not sure whether marriage is my vocation. I begin almost to fancy that I must have been intended for an old maid. Would it shock you very much if I were to be one after all?'