Robert was very miserable, so much so that he forgot to write to Theodora, and when he awoke after a restless night and remembered the omission he said with a sigh: "Theodora is right. It must be everything or nothing. If I could get her to come back here, it would be the old trouble over again--and worse."

That day he went to the Wyntons', and talked with Sir Thomas about the sale of the works. He was in hopes that he could form a syndicate, buy the works, and make himself president. And at first the baronet was enthusiastic about the scheme, but day after day, and week after week went on, and nothing definite was arrived at. Isabel had strong family feeling, and she was sullenly silent about the sale of the furnaces, and her brother's settlement in America. The works had done so well under Robert's direction, that her income had been nearly doubled, and she thought that he ought to continue his labor, where Providence had enabled him to do so well for the family. Finally, Robert abandoned the Wynton scheme, and went to Sheffield to see his old business friend Priestley. The visit was destined and propitious, and in three weeks the transfer of the Campbell Iron Works to a Yorkshire iron company was completed, and Robert was ready to return home.

He was glad of it. His visit had been a painful and separating one. His sisters had disappointed him. He was sure Isabel had prevented her husband's desire to buy the works, and she had let him feel, in her cold, silent way, that she disapproved of his selling them, and still more disapproved of his settlement in America. And the selfish little soul of Christina complained constantly of Robert leaving her money in strange hands. She thought it was his duty to stay in Glasgow and manage the works for his mother's and sisters' benefit; and when the sisters talked of the matter together, they expressed themselves very plainly about that "Englishwoman who had been so unfortunate to their house."

Robert went from Sheffield to Liverpool, and did not return to Glasgow.

He was glad and grateful to set his face westward and homeward. Nothing of importance happened on the journey, and when he reached San Francisco his brother David was waiting at the railway depot to welcome him. They clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes, and everything was well said that words would have said clumsily. It was then nearly dark, and they went to the hotel for the night. Far into the midnight hours they sat discussing their business future, and David was astonished at the fortune which Robert had made out of the old works. And Robert was still more astonished at the fortune which his brother had made out of his relatively small capital, and his own business sagacity and native industry and prudence.

In the early morning David wished his brother to go and look over the new home which Theodora had been preparing, but Robert said he wanted to see Theodora above all things, and would go at once out to the Newtons'.

"Very good," replied David, "then you will go alone, for I am to bring Mercedes with me, and I cannot call for her before ten. It is a charming thing, Robert, that Mercedes and Theodora love each other dearly. They have worked together constantly over your new home, and made it a lovely place. I suppose you will be married this afternoon."

"Married! Married! Does Theodora expect it?"

"I think all preparations are made for the little ceremony. I would not disapprove, if I were you, Robert."

"Disapprove! What do you mean? I shall be the most joyful man in the world."

Breakfast was scarcely over when Robert reached Newton Place; and Theodora came running to meet him with a large ap.r.o.n over her pretty white dress. But oh, how beautiful was her beaming, smiling face, how tender her embrace, how sweet the loving words with which she welcomed him. He was paid, and overpaid, for all he had suffered, and all he had resigned.

"We shall be married this afternoon, eh darling?" he asked.

"All shall be as you wish, my love. I am ready," she answered.

Such a delightful morning! Such a happy hurry in the house! Such sweet laughter, and pleasant calling of each other's names! Such enthusiasm over Mercedes' beauty in her pink satin costume! Such an enjoyable little lunch at one o'clock! Such a bewildering number of pleasant events crowded into a few hours. If ever there was in any earthly home a sense of heavenly love and joy, it was in the Newton house that day.

Angels might--and probably did--rest in the flower-scented atmosphere of its spotless rooms, for if angels rejoice with the sinner forgiven and accepted, surely still more will they rejoice in the fruition of tried and accepted love, and in the unselfish affection of those who rejoice, because others rejoice.

Just before three o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Newton went together to the parlor and sat down by a small table covered with a white cloth, on which there lay a Bible and a Book of Common Prayer. A few minutes later David and Robert came in, and stood talking to them, until the door opened and Theodora and Mercedes entered. Then Mr. Newton stood up, and Robert and Theodora stood before him, and renewed their marriage vows in the most solemn and simple manner. There were no decorations, no music, no attendants, no company, nothing but a prayer, and the old, old ritual of a thousand years. But after it Mr. Newton told them in a few sentences, how supremely important love is to the soul.

"It perishes without love," he said. "To the soul love is blessing, love is salvation, love is the guardian angel, and without love the centrifugal law easily overpowers and sweeps it far out from its divine source, towards the cold frontiers of the material and the manifold."

Then there was a tender and cheerful good-bye, and Robert and Theodora went to their new home. They wandered hand in hand through all its beautiful rooms, and through the scented walks of its fair garden, and Robert said: "It is a palace in Paradise, darling."

"And I am so happy! So proud, and so happy, dear Robert!" she answered.

After a perfect dinner at their own table, Robert went to his wife's parlor to smoke his cigar, and then he told her all about his last unhappy visit to his family, and his native land.

It was the necessary minor note in their joyful wedding song, but it soon returned to its triumphant dominant, since they must needs rejoice in that loving Power which had so surely "tempered all things well,"

"_Had worked their pleasure out of pain, And out of ruin golden gain._"

And as they talked in the splendid room, with its sweet odors and dim light, their voices grew lower, and they were content to whisper each other's names, and fall into sweet silences, thrilled with such soft stir, as angels in their cloud-girt wayfarings know, when they "feel the breath of kindred plumes." And thus,

"_The tumult of the time disconsolate, To inarticulate murmurs died away._"