Not though he sat waiting for his "two- hours' wife," whom undoubtedly he had married for love--pure love-- the only reason for which anyone, man or woman, old or young, ought to dare to marry.

That he could feel as very few have the power to feel, no one who was any judge of physiognomy could doubt for a moment; yet he sat perfectly quiet--the quietness of a man accustomed to something safer and higher than self-suppression--self-control.

When Mr.Ferguson came in, he rose and began to speak about the weather and local topics as men do speak to one another--and better that they should!--even at such crises as weddings or funerals.
And Christian his wife?
She had run up stairs--ran almost with her former light step, for her heart felt lightened with the childish smile of little Oliver--to the attic which for the last nine months she had occupied--the nursery, now made into a bedroom, and tenanted by herself and the two little Fergusons.

No special sanctity of appropriation had it; a large, somewhat bare room, in which not a thing was her own, either to miss or leave behind.

For, in truth, she had nothing of her own; the small personalities which she had contrived to drag about with her from lodging to lodging having all gone to pay debts, which she had insisted -- and Dr.Grey agreed--ought to be paid before she was married.