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Book, page 131 / 172 "They will probably be married to-morrow," said one of the traveling men. "There will be a few hours' delay--nothing more." "Perhaps," replied Father Charles, as quietly as before. "And--perhaps not. Who can say what this little incident may not mean in the lives of that young man and that young woman--and, it may be, in my own? Three or four hours lost in a storm--what may they not mean to more than one human heart on this train? The Supreme Arbiter plays His hand, if you wish to call it that, with reason and intent. To someone, somewhere, the most insignificant occurrence may mean life or death. And to-night--this--means something." A sudden blast drove the night screeching over our heads, and the whining of the pines was almost like human voices. Forsythe sucked a cigar that had gone out. "Long ago," said Father Charles, "I knew a young man and a young woman who were to be married. The man went West to win a fortune. Thus fate separated them, and in the lapse of a year such terrible misfortune came to the girl's parents that she was forced into a marriage with wealth--a barter of her white body for an old man's gold. When the young man returned from the West he found his sweetheart married, and hell upon earth was their lot. But hope lingers in your hearts. He waited four years; and then, discouraged, he married another woman. Gentlemen, three days after the wedding his old sweetheart's husband died, and she was released from bondage. Was not that the hand of the Supreme Arbiter? If he had waited but three days more, the old happiness might have lived. "But wait! One month after that day the young man was arrested, taken to a Western State, tried for murder, and hanged. Do you see the point? In three days more the girl who had sold herself into slavery for the salvation of those she loved would have been released from her bondage only to marry a murderer!" There was silence, in which all five listened to that wild moaning of the storm. There seemed to be something in it now--something more than the inarticulate sound of wind and trees. Forsythe scratched a match and relighted his cigar. "I never thought of such things in just that light," he said.
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