reasoning of a few old-fashioned friends? The groom, who
represented so much and so little in this ceremony, had entered the
church with head held high, had faced his bride with gratified smile
and the altar with serene unconsciousness.

Margaret Maynard saw all this; saw even the bride, with her splendidly
regular loveliness; and then, out of heaven, it seemed there thundered
an awful command, rolling the dream away, striking terror to her
heart.

"If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined
together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his
peace!"

One long, silent, terrible moment! Would not an angel appear, with
flaming sword, to smite her dead? But the sing-song voice went on,
like flowing silk.

The last guest at Mrs. Maynard's reception had gone, reluctantly, out
into the snow, and the hostess sat in her drawing-room, amid the ruins
of flowers and palms. She was alone with her triumph. Mr. Maynard and
Mr. Swann were smoking in the library. Owing to the storm and delicate
health of the bride the wedding journey had been postponed.

Margaret was left alone, at length, in the little blue-and-white room
which had known her as a child and maiden, where she now sat as wife.
For weeks past she had been emotionless. To-night, with that
trenchant command, unanswered except in her heart, a spasm of pain had
broken the serenity of her calm, and had left her quivering.

"It is done," she whispered.

The endless stream of congratulations, meaningless and abhorrent to
her, the elaborate refreshments, the warm embraces of old friends had
greatly fatigued her. But she could not rest. She paced the little
room; she passed the beautiful white bridal finery, so neatly folded
by the bridesmaids, and she averted her eyes. She seemed not to hate
her mother, nor love her father; she had no interest in her husband.
She was slipping back again into that creature apart from her real
self.

The house became very quiet; the snow brushed softly against the
windows.

A step in the hall made Margaret pause like a listening deer; a tap
sounded lightly on her door; a voice awoke her at last to life and to
torture.

"Margaret, may I come in?"

It was Swann's voice, a little softer than usual, with a subtle
eagerness.

"No" answered Margaret, involuntarily.

"I beg your pardon. I'll wait." Swann's footsteps died away in the
direction of the library.

The spring of a panther was in Margare