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At length the bridal day came, and fled also like other days, save that a sweeter brightness enwrapped the soul of Elma; so six months or more flitted away in delicious dream-life, for outward things made comparatively slight impression; Elma lived and loved more than she thought. But one morning reflection and pain came together; the latter led in the former, a long-forgotten friend, and the young wife asked herself how far she had travelled onward and upward since the bridal days, since her path had been all sunshine;–she bowed her head and wept bitterly. “Not for me, at least,” she sighed, “is constant happiness a friend,–not yet am I fitted to enjoy the highest harmony of life. ‘Therefore, burn, thou holy pain, thou purifying fire!’ It is meet I should be wounded where my deepest joys are lodged. I see that it is the lash of pain which must drive me through the golden gates. Yes! I will arise, and thank my Father that He has not been as unmindful of my eternal well-being as I would be myself, if left to wander only among flowers of love and gladness.”

And what was this grief that awoke the bride from her blissful dream? It would seem the merest nothing to the strong man of the world, to the gay woman who glides, superficially through existence. But many a young bride will understand how it might be more sorrowful than the loss of houses and lands. It was the husband’s first frown, his first petulant word; it was the key that opened Elma’s understanding to the true estate of the past. She could no longer blind her eyes, as she had done, to a certain worldliness in her husband, and which had also reached her through him. This morning, that revealed so much, Horace had impatiently exclaimed as Elma held forth her Bible to him, as usual,–

“I have not time for that now, child!” and hastily kissing her, he put on his hat, and went forth to his business.

A pale anguish settled on Elma’s face as she sunk upon a chair.

“Is this the beginning of sorrows?” she murmured; “he never spoke to me so before, perhaps he will often do so again. If it had been about anything else, I think I could have borne it better! Oh God! is the angel leaving our Paradise?”

And she thought over and over again of this worldliness in her husband, and his want of the high standard in religion that was so dear to her; she felt that she was, in a measure, deceived in him,–surely once he seemed to dwell in an atmosphere that was more spiritual. Yes! Elma was deceived in him, but Horace had not deceived her. In the happy glow of his successful love, he had caught the warmth of Elma’s thoughts; they had charmed his imagination, in a measure commended themselves to his understanding, and made a temporary impression upon him heart, so that he went out among men with a more benevolent spirit than he had ever done before. But truth, to be abiding, must be sought after with an eager thirst; and it came to Horace crowned with flowers; he condescended to take the charmer in, and obeyed her for awhile, then she was forgotten, he thought not why, and he imperceptibly returned to the real self, which Elma had never before had an opportunity to become acquainted with.

Three years went by. Horace was a devoted husband, no being on earth was to him so perfect as his wife–no human being had ever exerted over him the quiet, holy influence that belonged to Elma. She had gradually accomplished infinitely more than she suspected, yet many a time, and oft, had he caused her grieved tears to fall like rain. Many a time had despairing prayers risen from her soul for him, while she breathed out to her God a cry for strength. She felt that she saw through a glass darkly; but she sought with most earnest heart for every duty, knowing that thus her pathway would lead continually to a more sure and steady light.