"Marriage merely a form? Why, no; marriage is a sacrament. We are taught that marriage is a sacrament by the Church, don't you remember?"
"Ah, yes; so we are. The Catholic Church does regard marriage as a sacrament, that's so. But then, you know, that's only a superstition."
"I don't think I understand what that means," I said,—"only a superstition. I know that I have always been taught that the love of men and women for each other is not perfect until it has been hallowed by the Church. It seems only right that with such a heavenly thing as love, the Church, which represents heaven upon earth, should have something to do. It seems only right that when two people love each other they should go to church, and kneel before the altar, and confess their love there in the presence of Our Blessed Lady. I should think they would want to tell her about the beautiful love that their hearts are full of, and to have her smile upon them, and say that their love is good, and bid them love each other always. I know that whenever I have any great feeling of any kind, sorrowful or joyful, it is sweet to confess it to Our Lady."
"Ah, well, I am not a pious man, I. But you shall have your wish in everything. Married by a priest, though not in a church, we shall be. When?"
"Oh, that is for you to say."
"Then we shall be married to-morrow,—but not in a church. Spare me the church. I'll get a priest, and bring him to your rooms to-morrow, and he shall marry us then and there. So long as we are married by a priest, it isn't necessary that it should be done in a church."
I was sorry for this,—sorry that he did not want to be married in a church. But I was afraid it might hurt his feelings, if I insisted upon my way; and so it was agreed that we should be married in my rooms to-morrow.
Eugene got up, and turned out the gas; and afterwards we sat together in the candle-light, and talked. The windows were wide open; and through them came in the hum of life from the streets; and clear and distinct above all we could hear the voice of a woman, not far away, singing a song,—a very sweet and plaintive song, that went like this. . . . No, no. It will make me cough. My voice is broken. I can't sing it for you. But it was a sweet song, and very, very sad. Eugene said it was from an opera,—Faust, I think he said. We sat together there, and talked. You would laugh if I should tell you all the things we said,—such trifling things, and yet so pleasant! One thing we re-
