woman—after the bride, who on that day was radiant with that fleeting beauty which comes once in every woman's life—in all the gay throng of guests who had come to witness the wedding of Margaret. She could not shut the doleful sound out from her ears, though she tried bravely, as with blanched face she turned away from the glass that a moment before had shown so rosy and smiling a reflection.
"Are you ready, my dear?" asked her husband.
"Yes."
"How pale you look! Are you not well?"
"Yes, yes, Gaffer; it is nothing. Bring my smelling-salts."
Her hand was on the door, when again the chime rang out, and again she heard that note of grief swelling now like a dirge, and sending the blood tingling through her veins. She gave a terrified cry, and mindless of her laces and bravery, fell upon her knees. In a moment her husband had her in his arms, trying to soothe the unaccountable paroxysm that shook her frame. It passed quickly, and she was soon quietly weeping upon his shoulder.
"Go, dear; go, my good, kind husband, and leave me. I cannot go to that wedding. I shall never be missed; and if I should be, say that I am ill!"
