“If I build not this temple, it will be no fault of yours,” said Markland, whose perceptions were becoming clearer.

“Let us build it together,” answered his wife.  “There will be no lack of materials.”

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHEN the offer of Mr. Walker’s cottage was made known in the family, there was a passive acquiescence in the change on the part of all but Aunt Grace.  Her pride was aroused.

“It’s very kind in Mr. Willet,” she said—­“very kind, but scarcely delicate under the circumstances.”

“Why not delicate?” inquired Mr. Markland.

“Did they think we were going into that little pigeon-box, just under the shadow of Woodbine Lodge.  If we have to come down so low, it will not be in this neighbourhood.  There’s too much pride in the Markland blood for that!”

“We have but little to do with pride now,” said Mrs. Markland.

Her husband sighed.  The remark of his sister had quickened his blood.

“It is the best we can do!” he remarked, sadly.

“Not by any means,” said Grace.  “There are other neighbourhoods than this, and other houses to be obtained.  Let us go from here; not remain the observed of all curious observers—­objects of remark and pity!”

Her brother arose while she was speaking, and commenced walking the room in a disturbed manner.  The words of Grace had aroused his slumbering pride.

“Rather let us do what is best under the circumstances,” said Mrs. Markland, in her quiet way.  “People will have their own thoughts, but these should never turn us from a right course.”

“The sight of Woodbine Lodge will rebuke me daily,” said Mr. Markland.

“You cannot be happy in this neighbourhood.”  Grace spoke in her emphatic way.  “It is impossible!”

“I fear that it is even so,” replied her brother.

“Then,” said Mrs. Markland, in a firm voice, “we will go hence.  I place nothing against the happiness of my husband.  If the sight of our old home is to trouble him daily, we will put mountains between, if necessary.”

Markland turned toward his wife.  She had never looked more beautiful in his eye.

“Is self-negation to be all on her part?” The thought, flashing through his mind, changed the current of his feelings, and gave him truer perceptions.

“No, Agnes,” he said, “while a faint smile played around his lips, “we will not put mountains between us and this neighbourhood.  Pride is a poor counsellor, and they who take heed to her words, sow the seeds of repentance.  In reverse of fortune, we stand not alone.  Thousands have walked this rugged road before us; and shall we falter, and look weakly back?”

“Not so, Edward!” returned his wife, with enthusiasm; “we will neither falter nor look back.  Our good and evil are often made by contrasts.  We shall not find the way rugged, unless we compare it too closely with other ways our feet have trodden, and sigh vainly over the past, instead of accepting the good that is awarded us in the present.  Let us first make the ’rough paths of peevish nature even,’ and the way will be smooth to our feet.”