There was a
soothed, calm expression on Beth's brow, and her eyes met Arthur's as he
touched her hand. May thought she seemed a trifle subdued that day,
especially toward evening. Beth had a sort of feeling that night that
she would have been content to sit there at the church window for all
time. There was a border of white lilies about the altar, a sprinkling
of early stars in the evening sky; solemn hush and sacred music within,
and the cry of some stray night-bird without. There were gems of poetry
in that sermon, too; little gleanings from nature here and there. Then
she remembered how she had once said Arthur had not an artist-soul. Was
she mistaken? Was he one of those men who bury their sentiments under
the practical duties of every-day life? Perhaps so.
The next day she and May sat talking on the sofa by the window.
"Don't you think, May, I should make a mistake if I married a man who
had no taste for literature and art?"
"Yes, I do. I believe in the old German proverb, 'Let like and like mate
together.'"
Was that a shadow crossed Beth's face?
"But, whatever you do, Beth, don't marry a man who is all moonshine. A
man may be literary in his tastes and yet not be devoted to a literary
life.
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