e shall we live, Eben?" asked the practical Hetty.

"Live! live!" he cried, like a boy; "live anywhere, so that we live
together!"

"There is always plenty to do, everywhere," said Hetty, reflectively:
"we should not have to be idle."

Dr. Eben looked at her with mingled admiration and anger.

"Hetty!" he exclaimed, "I wish you'd leave off 'doing,' for a while. All
our misery came of that. At any rate, don't ever try to 'do' any thing
for me again as long as you live! I'll look out for my own happiness,
the rest of the time, if you please."

His healing had begun when he could make an affectionate jest, like
this; but healing would come far slower to Hetty than to him. Complete
healing could perhaps never come. Remorse could never wholly be banished
from her heart.

When it had once been settled that the marriage should take place, there
seemed no reason for deferring it; no reason, except that Father
Antoine's carnations were for some cause or other, not yet in full
bloom, and both he and Marie were much discontented at their tardiness.
However, the weather grew suddenly hot, with sharp showers in the
afternoons, and both the carnations and the Ayrshire roses flowered out
by scores every morning, until even Marie was satisfied there would be
enough. There was no tint of Ayrshire rose which could not be found in
Father Antoine's garden,--white, pink, deep red, purple: the bushes grew
like trees, and made almost a thicket, along the western boundary of the
garden. Early on the morning of Hetty's wedding, Marie carried heaped
basketfuls of these roses, into the chapel, and covered the altar with
them. Pierre Michaud, now a fine stalwart fellow of twenty-one, just
married to that little sister of Jean Cochot, about whom he had once
told so big a lie, had begged for the privilege of adorning the rest of
the chapel. For two days, he and Jean, his brother-in-law, had worked in
the forests, cutting down young trees of fir, balsam, and dogwood. The
balsams were full of small cones of a brilliant purple color; and the
dogwoods were waving with showy white flowers. Pierre set each tree in a
box of moist earth, so that it looked as thriving and fresh as it had
done in the forest; first, a fir, and then a dogwood, all the way from
the door to the altar, reached the gay and fragrant wall. Great masses
of Linnea vines, in full bloom, hung on the walls, and big vases of
Father Antoine's carnations stood in the niches, with the w