Agatha found her in precisely the same position.

"Thank you, dear." She held out her hand for the letter, and then
retired with it to a far window. It took a good while to read. All the
time that the young bride was being dressed by Emma and the maid, Miss
Valery stood in that recess, her back turned towards them, apparently
reading or pondering over that strange scrawl from the Far West.

At last Mrs. Thornycroft gently hinted that there was hardly time for
her to return home and dress for the wedding.

"Dress for the wedding," repeated Anne, absently. "Oh, yes; I remember,
it was to be early. No fear! I will be quite ready."

She crossed the room, walking slowly, but at the door turned to look at
the bride, on whose head Emma was already placing the orange-blossoms.

"Doesn't she look pretty?" appealed the gratified matron-ministrant.

"Yes; very pretty.--God bless her!" said Miss Valery, and kissed her on
the forehead. Agatha quite started--the lips were so cold.

"Well!" cried Emma Thornycroft, as the door closed, "I do wish, my dear,
that little Missy had been grown up enough to be your bridesmaid instead
of that very quiet ordinary-looking old maid. But, after all, the
contrast will be the greater."

At nine o'clock the bride's half of the wedding-party were all safely
assembled in Doctor Ianson's drawing-room, and everything promised to
go off successfully--to which result Emma, now all in her glory, prided
herself as having been the main contributor--and no doubt the kind,
active, sensible little matron was right.--When, lo!--there came an
unlucky _contretemps_.

Major Harper, who of course was to give away the bride, sent word that
on account of sudden business he could not possibly be at the church
before eleven. At that hour he promised faithfully to meet his brother
there. The note which he sent over was a very hurried and disjointed
scrawl. This was all that the vexed bridegroom knew of the matter.

So for two long hours Agatha sat in her wedding-dress, strangely quiet
and silent--sometimes playing with the wreath of orange-blossoms which
her lover had sent her, and which, being composed of natural flowers,
according to a whim of Mr. Harper's, was already beginning to fade.
Still she refused to put it aside, though the prudent Emma warned her it
would be quite withered before she reached the church; "as was sure to
be the case when people were so ridiculous as to wear real flowers."

The good s