As the handsome and distinguished-looking bridegroom stood before the altar awaiting the entrance of his bride, it were almost sacrilege to utter a word deprecatory or otherwise.

Hubert Tracy supports his friend with an air of interest. He seems more impatient than the other, and has a look of ill-concealed uneasiness upon his slightly furrowed brow. He hears not the remarks of pretty maidens or dignified matrons, else the slight frown would have given place to a smile.

"Mr. Tracy is as handsome as the groom, mamma."

"Handsomer, my dear."

There was still a chance to ensnare the uncaged bird, and this fact was alone in the mind of the anxious mamma. But the entrance of the bridal party put an end to all talk concerning the sterner s.e.x.

"Isn't she lovely?" "What a magnificent dress?" "She is so composed." "Really, Marguerite is as pretty as the bride." "Oh, indeed; fine feathers make fine birds." "If our girls could have all the money they want and nothing to do I bet you they would look better than any one of them." "Well, well. The world is ill divided." "Isn't Miss ---- gorgeous in that lovely lace." "If we had some of the money that has been spent upon them dresses we wouldn't have to work any this summer."

Such was a brief outline of the speeches made upon this important event, but they were lost upon the wedding party.

The guests comprised the wealth and beauty of St. John and as each guest was ushered in one could not fail to exclaim: "St. John has wealth, beauty and refinement."

The scene was an imposing one. While the choir sang,

"The voice that breathed o'er Eden,"

a young man entered and took his place among the guests. He had been detained but arrived in time to tender his congratulations to one more important to him than the radiant bride.

Why does Hubert Tracy instinctively cast a glance towards the new comer, and feel a slight shudder through his frame?

It matters not at present. Let him enjoy the benefit of his thoughts while we turn to our old friend.

"Mr. Lawson is growing better looking every day," is our verdict, as with genial warmth we grasp him by the hand.

An intelligent face can never remain long in obscurity, and when a generous soul and kind, true heart are also accompanying graces there is a beauty that is unfading. But it is only the higher side of humanity which can discover this beauty. And perhaps on this festive morn many of the worldly minded would fail to recognize this superior style of beauty.

But proudly Phillip Lawson stands with the consciousness of having tried to act well his part and live in obedience to the dictates of his G.o.d.

It was only when the guests had a.s.sembled in the s.p.a.cious drawing- room at "Sunnybank" that our friend found opportunity to have a short conversation with Marguerite, who with sunlit face took no pains to conceal her delight. She chatted with Phillip Lawson with a familiarity that led the calculating mother to think that she had no further troubles from that source.

And Cousin Jennie's presence heightened the effect of this illusion.

Clad in draperies of soft nun's veiling Jennie Montgomery was, if not pretty, quite interesting, and her bright, fresh face was refreshing as the air of her native vales.

As in truth every wedding boasts of the time-honored conventionalities, toasts and speeches, that of "Sunnybank" formed no exception, and we will not weary you with the endless list of compliments and amount-to-nothing-in-the-end talk which is current at such times.

It was only when the hour for departure had arrived that a sense of loneliness crept over Marguerite.

The elegant presents had been inspected, luncheon served, and the bride, attired in a superb travelling costume, stood in the doorway awaiting the carriage.

Montague Arnold wears all the necessary smiles that are expected of him, and as he takes his place beside his bride a new responsibility dawns upon him.

A large number of the party accompany the newly-wedded pair to the Fairville Station, and Marguerite is a.s.signed to Mr. Lawson and Cousin Jennie.

The latter is cheerful and witty and strives, under cover of her remarks, to divert her cousin from the sadness that is common to such occasions.

Phillip Lawson sees with grat.i.tude the girl's kindness and thanks her in a way that is tenfold more valued than the counterfeit everyday thanks pa.s.sed around in common life. If the young barrister could have seen the true state of Cousin Jennie's feelings towards him he would have fallen on his knees and thanked G.o.d for such a friend.

But Phillip Lawson was not a mind reader. He could not divine the thoughts that were pa.s.sing through Jennie Montgomery's ready and active brain. But one thing he did know, that in this warm-hearted girl he had a true friend.

When Marguerite returned to her home a vague, undefined feeling took possession of her, and gladly would she have given herself up to this feeling, and indulged in a good, old-fashioned, time-honored cry.

She felt a sudden pang of remorse. She thought of the lost opportunities when she might have had a stronger hold upon the sympathies of her elder sister.

"Poor Eve," murmured the girl, "she was less to blame than I. We have never had each other's confidence. I hope she will try to love Montague as a woman should love her husband. How I should like to ask mamma what she thinks; but what is the use. She will say it is one of the best matches of the season, and no doubt she will end by advising me as to her anxiety--on my behalf. Oh, dear! why cannot we live in a state of blissful oblivion?"

The miniature bronzed clock on the mantel-shelf caused Marguerite to look up.

"Four o'clock--dear me; I wish this afternoon was over. The house seems as if a funeral had left it. Poor Evelyn."

"You naughty Madge, where are you?"

The speaker was Jennie Montgomery. She had been busy over the arrangement of a number of bouquets for the dinner-table, and a.s.sisting Mrs. Verne in many ways, and now made a hasty transit towards Madge's favorite retreat--a pretty boudoir adjoining her mamma's dressing-room.

"Just as auntie said, you old offender. A pretty time for day-dreams when everybody is head over ears in business."

"I have not been here an hour, Jennie," said Madge, in an apologetic manner, putting her arms caressingly around her cousin's waist.

The latter, though apparently preoccupied, could not fail to admire this quaint and pretty nook--just such a spot as one could sit in and dream their life away; a sort of lotus bed, where one inhaled the beguiling odors, and cast all worldly cares to the sh.o.r.es left behind.

And little wonder cousin Jennie gazed in admiration.

The walls were of the most delicate rose color, tinged with gold; the carpet, a ground of white velvet pile bestrewed with delicate roses; the furniture of delicate pink satin, with setting of quaintly carved ebony.

But the "seat of state," as Jennie termed it, was the crowning feature in this pretty retreat.

This seat of state was a raised dais, curtained with costly lace and surmounted by a canopy of pretty workmanship. In this alcove was an antique chair or fauteuil, and beside it a small cabinet, inlaid with mother of pearl, while opposite stood an ebony writing desk, strewed with fragments of exquisitely perfumed note paper.

It was evident that Marguerite had been penning down some stray thoughts, for the pen stood in the inkstand, and traces of ink were to be seen on her fingers.

This seat of state was just such a place as our sweet-faced Marguerite looked to advantage, not as a queen upon her throne, but as a type of the _spirituelles_--of the pure-minded maiden with a slight shade of melancholy, giving interest to the soft, fair face.

"You remind me of a madonna, my saint-like cousin," said Jennie, placing her bright red cheek against the purely transparent and more delicate one of her companion.

"What a contrast, Madge. Just look at your country cousin--a blooming peony, and you, my most delicate blush rose. Ha! ha! ha!"

Cousin Jennie's laugh was one of the genuine ring--untrammelled by affectation or repressed by pain or languor. She gave vent to her feelings and exercised such influence upon Cousin Madge who now joined in with a clear silvery peal of laughter, sweeter than the most bewitching music. Nor was this "sweetness lost upon a desert air."

Mr. Verne had been engaged in his apartments for some minutes. He had entered un.o.bserved in company with a friend and a few minutes later a gentleman bearing some legal looking doc.u.ments entered and without ceremony was ushered in. It was while the latter was taking leave that the well-known tones of Marguerite Verne's voice rang out its silvery sweetness and caused the listener to start. But it matters not who the latter was--suffice, a man

"of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gained no t.i.tle, and who lost no friend."

"Come with me Madge and see what I have done. Indeed, I am not going to put my light under a bushel. Everyone must see my good works,"

exclaimed Jennie, drawing her arm through that of her cousin and leading her out to the supper room where a sight worth seeing presented itself.

The tables were arranged with an eye to the beautiful. Everything that art and taste could suggest was there.