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“I don’t know what is the matter with me,” he said, “and I don’t think it is very much at present. But, dear, I have a kind of presentiment that I am going to become an invalid. My strength is nothing like what it was, and at times it fails me in a most unaccountable manner. Barbara, it breaks my heart to say it, but I doubt whether you ought to marry me.”

“If you were going to be a permanent invalid, which I do not believe for one moment,” answered Barbara steadily, “you would want a nurse, and who could nurse you so well as your wife? Therefore unless you had ceased to care for me, I should certainly marry you.”

Then, as still he seemed to hesitate, she flung her arms about him and kissed him, which was an argument that he lacked strength to resist.

A day or two afterwards her father also spoke to Barbara.

“I don’t like this illness of Anthony’s, my dear. The doctor does not seem to understand it, or at any rate so he pretends, and says he has no doubt it will pass off. But I cannot help remembering the case of his brother George; also that of his mother before him.. In short, Barbara, do you think–well, that it would be wise to marry him? I know that to break it off would be dreadful, but, you see, health is so very important.”

Barbara turned on her father almost fiercely.

“Whose health?” she asked. “If you mean mine, it is in no danger; and if it were I should care nothing. What good would health be to me if I lost Anthony, who is more to me than life? But if you mean his health, then the greatest happiness I can have is to nurse him.”

“Yes, yes, I understand, dear. But, you see, there might be–others.”

“If so, father, they must run their risks as we do; that is if there are any risks for them to run, which I doubt.”

“I dare say you are quite right, dear; indeed, I feel almost sure that you are right, only I thought it my duty to mention the matter, which I hope you will forgive me for having done. And now I may tell you I have a letter from Anthony, saying that he is ever so much better, and asking if the fifteenth of November will suit us for the wedding.”

On the fifteenth of November, accordingly, Anthony and Barbara were made man and wife by the bride’s father with the assistance of the clergyman of the next parish. Owing to the recent death of the bridegroom’s brother and the condition of Mr. Arnott’s health the wedding was extremely quiet. Still, in its own way it was as charming as it was happy. All her five sisters acted as Barbara’s bridesmaids, and many gathered in that church said they were the most beautiful bevy of maidens that ever had been seen. But if so, Barbara outshone them all, perhaps because of her jewels and fine clothes and the radiance on her lovely face.

Anthony, who seemed to be quite well again, also looked extremely handsome, while Aunt Thompson, who by now had put off her mourning, shone in that dim church as the sun shines through a morning mist.

In short, all went as merrily as it should, save that the bride’s mother seemed depressed and wept a little.

This, said her sister to someone in a loud voice, was in her opinion nothing short of wicked. What business, she asked, has a woman with six portionless daughters to cry because one of them is making a good marriage; “though it is true,” she added, dropping her voice to a confidential whisper, “that had Barbara chosen she might have made a better one. Yes, I don’t mind telling you that she might have been a peeress, instead of the wife of a mere country squire.”