d no father here on earth,
now, to give her to the man she loved, and to bless her union with him.

That, in itself might have been enough to account for the gloom that
darkened her wedding day. But that was not all. For, though her father
was not visibly present here on earth, she knew that he watched and
blessed her from his eternal home. No! but her prophetic soul was
darkened by the shadow of some approaching misfortune.

Margaret, her new maid, brought her a cup of coffee in her chamber. After
she had drank it, she went sadly in her dressing-room, to make her toilet
for the altar.

Margaret was her only attendant and dresser.

Salome was still in the deepest mourning for her murdered father. In
leaving it off, for the marriage altar only, she had resolved to replace
it only by such a simple dress as might have been worn by any portionless
bride in the middle class of society.

She wore a plain white tulle dress, over a lustreless white silk, an
Illusion vail, a wreath of orange buds, and white kid gloves and gaiters.
She wore no jewels of any sort.

Her bridesmaids, only two in number, were dressed like herself, except
that they wore no vails, and that their wreaths were of white rose buds.

At eleven o'clock in the morning, a handsome but very plain coach drew up
before the gate of Elmhurst Terrace.

The bride, attended by her two bridesmaids and Lady Belgrade, entered it,
and was driven off quietly to St. George's, Hanover square.

No invitations had been issued for the wedding, except to the nearest
family connections of the bride and bridegroom.

But unfortunately the news of the approaching marriage had crept out, and
got into the morning papers, and consequently the street before the
church, the churchyard, and the church itself, were crowded with
spectators.

Way was made for the small bridal procession, which was met at the
entrance by the bridegroom's party, consisting of himself, his "best
man," and his second groomsman.

There, with reverential tenderness, the young Duke of Hereward greeted
his bride. And the small procession passed up the central aisle, and
formed before the altar.

Around them stood the nearest friends of the two families.

Behind them, extending back to the farthest extremity of the church,
crowded a miscellaneous mass of spectators.

This must have happened through the oversight of those parties whose duty
it was to have had the church doors closed and guarded, so t