The consequence was, oddly enough, that I went upstairs to bed feeling so extremely sober that, before I laid my head upon my pillow, I had begun to doubt whether I cared for John Hollingford at all.

It was not that I shrank from what his mother had called the "sacrifices" I should make in becoming his wife.

I never even thought of them.

I had found too much happiness at Hillsbro' Farm to be able to realise their existence.

But I had a superstition that I ought to feel very joyfully excited about all I had learned that evening; first, that John really loved me, and, secondly, that his mother was ready to take me to her heart.