her most strongly to stay away."

He turned and opened the door behind him, and as he did so, his
sister-in-law heard him mutter to himself: "Of course at the great
majority of weddings if the people present knew what was going to come
afterwards, they would do nothing but cry. But this is not that sort of
wedding, thank God!"

Sir Jacques and old Anna came last up the staircase leading to Jervis
Blake's room. He and the old German woman were on very friendly terms.
Before the War Sir Jacques had been in constant correspondence with two
eminent German surgeons, and as a young man he had spent a year of study
in Vienna. He now addressed a few cheerful, heartening remarks in German
to Rose's old nurse, winding up rather peremptorily with the words:
"There must be no tears. There is here only matter for rejoicing." And
Anna, in a submissive whisper, had answered, "Ja! Ja!"

And then, as she walked last into the room, Anna uttered a guttural
expression of delighted surprise, for it was as if every hothouse flower
in Witanbury had been gathered to do honour to the white-clad, veiled
figure who now stood, with downcast eyes, by the bridegroom's bedside.

The flowers were Mr. Robey's gift. He had gone out quite early that
morning and had pressed all those of his acquaintances who had
greenhouses, as well as the flower shops in Witanbury, under
contribution; and the delicate, bright colouring with which the room was
now filled gave a festive, welcoming air to this bridal chamber.

Rose looked up, and as her eyes met the loving, agitated glance of her
nurse, she felt a sudden thrill of warm gratitude to good old Anna, for
Jervis had whispered, "How lovely you look, darling! Somehow I thought
you would wear an everyday dress--but this is much, much nicer!"

Those present followed the order of the marriage service with very
varying emotions, and never had the Dean delivered the familiar, awesome
words with more feeling and more grace of diction.

But the only two people in that room whose breasts were stirred to
really happy memories were Mr. and Mrs. Robey. They, standing together a
little in the background, almost unconsciously clasped each other's
hands.

Across the mind of Sir John Blake there flashed a vivid memory of his
own wedding day. The marriage had been celebrated in the cantonment
church of an up-country station, where, after a long, wearying
engagement, and a good deal of what he had even then called
"shilly