to please a man, they have fallen to him under the law of
Providence, that he that hath shall receive. I pity your illness, dear
mamma, but I fear Mr. Milburn is ill, too, for he has not been here all
night, though he left me at the church-gate."

"I hope the viper is dead!" Mrs. Custis said, with great clearness, and
energized it by sitting up in bed. Roxy left the room.

"I hope he has been murdered," said Mrs. Custis, "and that the murderer
will never be discovered. If there is any spirit of the McLanes left in
my brothers and nephews, they will wipe out, in blood, the insult of
this marriage between my daughter and the man who set a trap upon the
honor of a respectable family."

Vesta arose with a pale, troubled face, yet with some of her mother's
prejudice flashing back.

"He can defend himself, mamma. I shall go to seek him now, since he is
so much hated for me."

She returned to her room, and put on a walking-suit, and made her
toilet. In the library Vesta found her father dozing in a large chair,
with his feet upon a leather sofa, and a silk handkerchief drawn across
his crown, under which were the dry beds of tears that had coursed down
his cheeks. She saw, with a touch of joy, that the sherry in the
decanter was untouched, and the two glasses were still clean: he had not
relapsed into his habits, even while making an all-night vigil to wait
for the unwelcome son-in-law. He started as she entered, and then stared
at her between his dazed wits and a mute inquiry that she could
understand.

"He has not come, papa. And mamma--oh! she is severe."

Vesta, trembling at the throat a moment, rushed into her father's
wide-open arms, and buried the sob in his breast.

"Poor soul! Poor lamb! Poor thing!" he said, over and over, while his
temper slowly rose, that seldom rose of recent years, since pleasure and
carelessness had taken its masculine sting away, but Vesta felt his
tones change while he petted her, and at last heard him say, hoarsely:

"By God!"

"Sh--h!" she whispered, raising her hand to his mouth.

"I will kill somebody," he went on, finishing his sentence, and as she
drew away he strode across the room and back again, a noble exhibition
of passion that had a noble origin, in fatherly pity.

"Don't lose your true pride, papa, after you have persevered so long,"
Vesta said. "It is Sunday. Do you think he will come? What can have
happened?"

"He will either come or fight me," Judge Custis remar