iate for a
wedding dress?" I asked.

"I wish you could see yourself in it," she said, and that satisfied me.

We were married simply, but to the sound of wonderful music, in a
certain little church not far from ------ Street. My aunt was there and
my four lovers, though they had said, one and all, they would not come.
But I saw nothing, realized nothing, save the feverish anxiety of my
bridegroom, who, up to the minute the final vows were uttered, seemed to
be on a strain of mingled emotions, among which I seemed to detect that
old one of fear. A pitiful outlook for an adoring bride, you will think,
who, without real friends to interest themselves in her, allows herself
to be pushed to a brink she is wise enough to see, but not strong enough
to recoil from. Yes, but its full pathos did not strike me then. I only
felt anxious to have the ceremony over, to know that the die was
cast beyond my own powers of retraction; and when the words of the
benediction at last fell upon my ears, it was with real joy I turned to
see if they brought him as much rapture as they did me. Happily for that
moment's satisfaction they did, and if a friend had been there with eyes
to see and heart to feel, there would have been nothing in the air of
open triumph with which Mr. Allison led me down the aisle to awaken
aught but hope and confidence. My own hopes rose at the sight, and when
at the carriage door he turned to give me a smile before he helped me
in, nothing but the obstinacy of my nature prevented me from accepting
the verdict of my acquaintances, "That for a little country girl, with
nothing but her good looks to recommend her, Delight Hunter had done
remarkably well in the one short month she had been in the city."

Mr. Allison had told me that it would be impossible for him to take
me out of the city at present. It was therefore to the house on ------
Street we were driven. On the way he attempted to reconcile me to what
he feared might strike me as dreary in the prospect.

"The house is partially closed," said he, "and many of the rooms are
locked. Even the great drawing-rooms have an uninhabited look, which
will make them anything but attractive to a lover of sunshine and
comfort; but the library is cheerful, and in that you can sit and
imagine yourself at home till lean wind up my business affairs and make
possible the trip upon which I have set my heart."

"Does that mean," I faintly ventured, "that you will leave me to spen