ment by an assumption of careless gaiety. "Esther, this is Mr. Markham, my friend Markham, Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave."
I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom's hand.
"Why did you not tell me of this?" I said reproachfully, pretending a resentment I did not feel (for in truth I was almost wild with joy to find myself so happily mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him for this and for the base injustice I felt that I had done him in my mind—he might have wronged me, but not to that extent; and as I had hated him like a demon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such a feeling was so great that I could pardon all offences for the moment—and love him in spite of them too).
"I did tell you," said he, with an air of guilty confusion, "you received my letter?"
"What letter?"
"The one announcing my intended marriage."
