beliefs. When he had fairly mastered the situation, he married one of
his cousins.

He was in his robust middle-age, which comes so much later to men than
to women, she was well on in her thirties--a comely, sensible,
well-bred young lady, and a most excellent coadjutor to a squire new to
the business. An eminently wise selection, said his brother squires,
when the engagement was announced. The wedding was a great family
function and county event. It meant that the Careys, instead of being
split up and scattered to the winds, remained together, united in
amity; it meant that the dignity of the old house was to be kept up.
When, a year later, Wellwood rang bells and lit bonfires in honour of a
son and heir, nothing seemed wanting to confirm the general impression
that our Guthrie was not only a wise but a singularly fortunate man.

It was an impression that Guthrie shared. From the point of view that
he had now reached in life, he believed himself favoured beyond the
common lot. He loved Wellwood, full of the memorials of his ancient
race; he enjoyed his settled and comfortable place therein, after the
homeless roving of so many years--the feel of solid land under his
feet and under his life, for which every sailor pines, despite whatever
spell the sea may lay on him. He was proud of his
perfect-mannered wife, who was also his good friend and confidante; he
was egregiously proud of his handsome boy. And the day of the young
romance--of the great passion--of those sordid "little fires" which
beckon to men whose nature craves for warmth and whose "yule is cold"--
that day was past. "Love is one thing and marriage another," he had
once said, without really meaning it; but he had spoken truer than he
knew. Moreover, the shocking statement was not nearly so awful as it
seemed. The very conditions of married life are fatal to love, as love