's moist cloak, Sally joined me before the altar, in the square of
faint light that fell from the windows. The interior of the church was
very dim, so dim that her white dress and the minister's gown seemed the
only patches of high light in the obscurity. Through the window I could
see the wet silvery boughs of a sycamore, and, I remember still, as if
it had been illuminated upon my brain, a single bronzed leaf that
writhed and twisted at the end of a slender branch. Never in my life had
my mind been so awake to trivial impressions, so acutely aware of the
external world, so perfectly unable to realise the profound significance
of the words I uttered. The sound of the soft rain on the graves outside
was in my ears, and instead of my marriage, I found myself thinking of
the day I had seen Sally dancing toward me in her red shoes, over the
coloured leaves. In those few minutes, which changed the course of our
two lives, it was as if I myself--the man that men knew--had been
present only in a dream.

When it was over, the General kissed Sally, and wiped his eyes on his
silk handkerchief.

"You're a brave girl, my dear, and I'm proud of you," he said; "you've
got your mother's heart and your father's fighting blood, and that's a
good blending."

"I wish the sun had shone on you," observed the old minister, while I
helped her into her cloak; "but we Christians can't afford to waste
regret on heathen superstitions. I married your mother," he added, as if
there were possible comfort in a proof of the futility of omens, "on a
cloudless morning in June."

Sally shivered, and glanced across the churchyard, where the water
dripped from the bared trees on the graves that were covered thickly
with sodden leaves.

"The sun may welcome us home," she replied, with an effort to be
cheerful; "we shall be back again in a fortnight."

"And you go South?" asked the minister nervously, like a man who tries
to make conversation because his professional duty requires it of him.
Then the umbrella went up again, and after a good-by to the General, we
started together down the walk, with Aunt Euphronasia following close as
a shadow.

"The rain does not sadden you, sweetheart?"

"It saddens me, but that does not mean that I am not happy."

"And you would do it over again?"

"I would do it over until--until the last hour of my life."

"Oh, Sally, Sally, if I were only sure that I was worthy."

A light broke in her face, and as she lo