had tenderly supported her, the nurse who
carried the fragrant bouquet of honeysuckle--the bond of love--which she
had herself gathered for the bride, all were waiting to draw them back
to earth again; and with Scott's hand clasping hers she turned
regretfully and left the holy place.

Later, when Sir Eustace kissed her with the careless observation that he
always kissed a bride, she had a moment of burning shyness, and she would
gladly have hidden her face. But Scott did not kiss her. He had not
offered to do so since that wonderful moment when he had first held her
against his heart. He had not attempted to make love to her, and she had
not felt the need of it. Grave and practical, he had laid his plans
before her, and with the supreme confidence that he had always inspired
in her she had acquiesced to all.

At his desire she had refrained from entering Isabel's death-chamber. At
his desire she was to leave that day for the Dower House that was to be
their home. Biddy would accompany her thither. The place was ready for
occupation, for by Isabel's wish the work had gone on, though both she
and Scott had known that they would never share a home there. It almost
seemed as if she had foreseen the fulfilment of her earnest wish. And
here Dinah was to await her husband.

"I won't come to you till the funeral is over," he said to her. "I must
be with Eustace. You won't be unhappy?"

No, she would not be unhappy. She had never been so near to Death before,
but she was neither frightened nor dismayed. She stood in the shadow
indeed, but she looked forth from it over a world of such sunshine as
filled her heart with quivering gladness.

He did not want her to attend the funeral at Willowmount, would not, if
he could help it, suffer her so much as to see the trappings of woe; and
in this Dinah acquiesced also, comprehending fully the motive that
underlay his wish. She knew that the earthly formalities, though they
had to be faced, were to Scott something of the nature of a grim farce in
which, while he could not escape it himself, he was determined that she
should take no part. He was not mourning for Isabel. He would not pretend
to mourn. Her death was to him but as the opening wide of a prison-door
to one who had long lain captive, pining for liberty. He would follow the
poor worn body to its grave rather with thanksgiving than with grief. And
realizing so well that this was his inevitable feeling, even as in a
smaller