te of New York.

His article about it, bargained for by a New York paper, must be on its
way by special post as soon after the starting of the train as possible.
He must have all items accurate; technicalities of preparation;
description of engine and coaches; details of arrangements, etc.; before
he added the final paragraphs describing the actual start of the train.
His article was practically done now, save for these few items. He had
started early that morning on his long drive, and, being detained longer
than he had expected, arrived at home with barely time to put himself into
wedding garments, and hasten in at the last moment with Marcia who stood
quietly waiting for him in the front hall. They were the last guests to
arrive. It was time for the ceremony, but the bride, true to her nature to
the last, still kept Lemuel waiting; and Lemuel, true to the end, stood
smiling and patient awaiting her pleasure.

David and Marcia entered the wide parlor and shook hands here and there
with those assembled, though for the most part a hushed air pervaded the
room, as it always does when something is about to happen.

Soon after their arrival some one in purple silk came down the stairs and
seated herself in a vacant chair close to where the bride was to stand.
She had gold hair and eyes like forget-me-nots. She was directly opposite
to David and Marcia. David was engrossed in a whispered conversation with
Mr. Brentwood about the events of the morrow, and did not notice her
entrance, though she paused in the doorway and searched him directly from
amongst the company before she took her seat. Marcia, who was talking with
Rose Brentwood, caught the vision of purple and gold and turned to face
for one brief instant the scornful, half-merry glance of her sister. The
blood in her face fled back to her heart and left it white.

Then Marcia summoned all her courage and braced herself to face what was
to come. She forced herself to smile in answer to Rose Brentwood's
question. But all the while she was trying to understand what it was in
her sister's look that had hurt her so. It was not the anger,--for that she
was prepared. It was not the scorn, for she had often faced that. Was it
the almost merriment? Yes, there was the sting. She had felt it so keenly
when as a little girl Kate had taken to making fun of some whim of hers.
She could not see why Kate should find cause for fun just now. It was as
if she by her look ignored Marc