ed and
took off his hat. I thought it was a strange thing that he should be in
the neighbourhood on Sara's wedding-day, and that he should have deigned
to play the part of a spectator after his severe strictures on gay
weddings. I supposed his business in Edinburgh was finished, and he had
an idle day or two on his hands. I half expected him to call the next
day, for I had given him my address; but he did not come, and I heard
from Mr. Tudor afterwards that he had gone on to Folkestone.

CHAPTER XXXII

A FIERY ORDEAL

It is a hackneyed truism, and, like other axioms, profoundly true, that
wedding-festivities are invariably followed by a sense of blank dulness.

It is like the early morning after a ball, when the last guests have left
the house: the lights flicker in the dawn, the empty rooms want sweeping
and furnishing to be fit for habitation. Yawns, weariness, satiety, drive
the jaded entertainers to their resting-places. Every one knows how
tawdry the ball-dress looks in the clear morning light. The diamonds
cease to flash, the flowers are withered, the game is played out.

Something of this languor and vacuum is felt when the bride and
bridegroom have driven away amid the typical shower of rice. The smiles
seem quenched, somehow; mother and sisters shed tears; a sense of loss
pervades the house; the bridal finery is heaped up in the empty room; one
little glove is on the table, another has fallen to the floor. All sorts
of girlish trinkets that have been forgotten lie unheeded in corners.

I know we all thought that evening would never end, and I quite
understood why Jill hovered near her mother's chair, listening to her
conversation with Mrs. Fullerton. Every now and then Aunt Philippa broke
down and shed a few quiet tears. I heard her mention Ralph's name once.
'Poor boy! how proud he would have been of his sister!' Uncle Brian heard
it too, for I saw him wince at the sound of his son's name; but Jill
stroked her mother's hand, and said, quite naturally, 'Most likely Ralph
knows all about it, mamma, and of course he is glad that Sara is so
happy.'

Our pretty light-hearted Sara. I had no idea that I should miss her
so much! Indeed, we all missed her: it seemed to me now that I had
undervalued her. True, she had not been a congenial companion to me in my
dark days; but even then I had wronged her. Why should I have expected
her to grope among the shadows with me, instead of following her into the
s