"Naughty one! you can bless me, if you will, only you are wayward."

"Bless you, then, dearest Rose, and all happiness on your marriage!"

Septimius had been duly present at the marriage, and kissed his sister with
moist eyes, it is said, and a solemn smile, as he gave her into the
keeping of Robert Hagburn; and there was something in the words he then
used that afterwards dwelt on her mind, as if they had a meaning in them
that asked to be sought into, and needed reply.

"There, Rose," he had said, "I have made myself ready for my destiny. I
have no ties any more, and may set forth on my path without scruple."

"Am I not your sister still, Septimius?" said she, shedding a tear or two.

"A married woman is no sister; nothing but a married woman till she becomes
a mother; and then what shall I have to do with you?"

He spoke with a certain eagerness to prove his case, which Rose could not
understand, but which was probably to justify himself in severing, as he
was about to do, the link that connected him with his race, and making for
himself an exceptional destiny, which, if it did not entirely insulate
him, would at least create new relations with all. There he stood, poor
fellow, looking on the mirthful throng, not in exultation, as might have
been supposed, but with a strange sadness upon him. It seemed to him, at
that final moment, as if it were Death that linked together all; yes, and
so gave the warmth to all. Wedlock itself seemed a brother of Death;
wedlock, and its sweetest hopes, its holy companionship, its mysteries,
and all that warm mysterious brotherhood that is between men; passing as
they do from mystery to mystery in a little gleam of light; that wild,