soft
breezes blew a fragrance of violets and lilac-blossom from the gardens
and the parks. London scarcely looked like itself, with the veil of
smoke lifted away, and a fair blue sky, flecked with light silvery
cloud, showing above the chimney-tops.

Ethel was up at seven o'clock, busying herself with the last touches to
her packing and the consideration of her toilet; for she was much too
active-minded to care for the seclusion in which brides sometimes
preserve themselves upon their wedding-mornings. Some people might have
thought that it would not be a very festive day, for her brother was the
only near relative who remained to her, and an ancient uncle and aunt
who had been, as Ethel herself phrased it, "routed out" for the
occasion, were not likely to add much to the gaiety of nations by their
presence. Mrs. Durant, lately Ethel's companion, was to remain in the
house as Maurice's housekeeper, and she had nominally the control of
everything; but Ethel was still the veritable manager of the day's
arrangements. She had insisted on having her own way in all respects,
and Oliver was not the man to say her nay--just then.

Mrs. Romaine had offered to stay the night with her, and help her to
dress; but Ethel had smilingly refused the companionship of her future
sister-in-law. "Thanks very much," she had said, in the light and airy
way which took the sting out of words that might otherwise have hurt
their hearer; "but I don't think there's anything in which I want help,
and Lesley Brooke is going to act as my maid on the eventful morn
itself."

"Lesley Brooke?" said Mrs. Romaine. She could not altogether keep the
astonishment out of her voice.

"Yes, why not?" asked Ethel, with just so much defiance in her voice as
to put Mrs. Romaine considerably on her guard. "Have you any objection?"

"Dear Ethel, how can you ask such a thing? When you know how fond I am
of Lesley."

"Are you?" asked Miss Kenyon lightly. "Do you know I should never have
thought it, somehow. _I_ am exceedingly fond of Lesley, and so"--with a
little more color in her face than usual--"so is Oliver."

Bravely as she spoke, there was something in the accent which told of
effort and repression. Mrs. Romaine admired her for that little piece of
acting more than she had ever admired her upon the stage. She was too
anxious for her brother's prosperity to say a word to disturb Ethel's
serenity, whether it was real or assumed.

"I am so glad, dear," s