it impossible to affect the
enthusiasm which was expected from her over the Cashmere shawl and
scarfs, the Indian fans and jewelry, the carved ivory trinkets, the
boxes full of Eastern scents,--sandalwood and calamus, nard and attar of
roses, and pungent gums that made the old "Seat" feel like a little bit
of Asia.

In a few days Julius followed; he came to see the presents, and to read,
with personal illustrations and comments, the letters that had
accompanied them. Sophia's ideas of her own importance grew constantly
more pronounced; indeed, there was a certain amount of "claim" in them,
which no one liked very well to submit to. And yet it was difficult to
resist demands enforced by such remarks as, "It is the last time I shall
ask for such a thing;" "One expects their own people to take a little
interest in their marriage;" "I am sure Julius and _his_ family have
done all _they_ can;" "They seem to understand what a girl must feel and
like at such an eventful time of her life," and so on, and so on, in
variations suited to the circumstances or the occasion.

Every one was worn out before July, and every one felt it to be a relief
when the wedding-day came. It was ushered in with the chiming of bells,
and the singing of bride-songs by the village children. The village
itself was turned upside down, and the house inside out. As for the
gloomy old church, it looked like a festal place, with flowers and gay
clothing and smiling faces. It was the express wish of Sophia that none
of the company should wear white. "That distinction," she said, "ought
to be reserved for the bride;" and among the maids in pink and blue and
primrose, she stood a very lily of womanhood. Her diaphanous, floating
robe of Dacca muslin; her Indian veil of silver tissue, filmy as light;
her gleaming pearls and feathery fan, made her

"A sight to dream of, not to tell."

The service was followed by the conventional wedding-breakfast; the
congratulations of friends, and the rattling away of the bridal-carriage
to the "hurrahing" of the servants and the villagers; and the
_tin-tin-tabula_ of the wedding-peals. Before four o'clock the last
guest had departed, and the squire stood with his wife and Charlotte
weary and disconsolate amid the remains of the feast and the dying
flowers; all of them distinctly sensitive to that mournful air which
accomplished pleasures leave behind them.

The squire could say nothing to dispel it. He took his rod a