It was one of those social self-sacrifices, as common now as then, in which the victim goes self-impelled to the altar, and lays upon its consuming fires the richest dower of womanhood.
I listened to the vows that were made on this occasion, and felt a low thrill of repulsion as words of such solemn import trembled on the air, for too well I knew that a union of souls in a true marriage, such as Delia Floyd might consummate, was impossible here.

Could she be happy in this marriage?
I gave to my own question an emphatic "No!" She might have a gay, brilliant, exciting life; but to that deep peace which is given to loving hearts, and which, in hours of isolation and loneliness, she would desire with an irrepressible longing, she must forever be a stranger.
I looked into her beautiful young face as she stood receiving the congratulations of friends, and felt as I had never felt before on such an occasion.

Instinctively my thought ran questioning along the future.
But no hopeful answer was returned.

How was she to advance in that inner-life development through which the true woman is perfected?
I pushed the question aside.

It was too painful.