egions, but she recollects
herself with a start, and does not stir from her seat. She lets the
bitter thoughts come uppermost in her heart now, for she is convinced,
of course, that this parting is the best thing that could take place.
Upstairs, He, quite helpless as to the locality of many necessaries that
have hitherto been prepared for him by thoughtful hands, and not feeling
able to confront his servant's inquiring eyes, is savagely thrusting
linen into an unwilling receptacle, whence ties and collars stick out
provokingly at odd corners, and trying to subdue a queer feeling that
oppresses him when he thinks of her stony indifference.

So the packing goes on, and the organ grinds merrily, and is inwardly
but emphatically cursed by at least two ungrateful people.

At last He is ready, and comes slowly down the stairs, giving some very
audible and offhand orders in the hall respecting his particular
belongings. A close observer might notice that he speaks and laughs a
little too readily. The little, pale woman, sitting motionless in the
room, hears him, and in her heart of hearts hears what he strives to
hide.

[Illustration: "COMES SLOWLY DOWN THE STAIRS."]

After all, it is a great wrench for a man to leave his--well, then,
whose fault is it? And the old arguments and suspicions rise again in
her mind and deaden all other feelings.

He comes into the drawing-room, hat in hand, very firm and very calm.
She does not move.

"Good-bye," he says, holding out his hand.

"Good-bye," she answers, taking it mechanically.

He pauses at the door, and their eyes meet. "It is much better so," she
says, faintly. And he is gone.

Then there is a rushing and singing in her ears. The notes of the organ
rise louder and louder, till they swell into a rich anthem--the garish
daylight changes to the dim light of a church--she walks up the aisle in
a glistening white dress, on which pearldrops shake and tremble. She
hears a dim murmur of voices and rustling of garments, and the scent of
white flowers is heavy in the air. There rises a clear voice, whose
fervour moves her inmost heart, exhorting her to love, honour and
obey--and out of the fulness of her soul she promises. _Oh! God, oh!
God, she meant to keep that promise._

Then comes a confused din of voices and rolling of carriages, but she is
only conscious of the strong arm to which she clings, and the clear face
that bends so tenderly over hers.

With a little sobbing