another direction. She had been literally unable to
move, standing, white and wild, gazing upon him. Presently came the
fateful wedding day. All the night preceding she lay awake, the old
tempest of feeling going on within her.

Should she denounce him, or should she not, on his wedding-day? Should
she take his bride from him at the very altar, and proclaim him to the
world as the liar and betrayer he was, or should she wait? She could not
decide. When morning came her mind was in as utter a tumult as ever.

"Have you decided?" Mr. Liston asked her. "Shall Laurence Thorndyke
leave his uncle's house to-day, with his bride by his side, or as an
outcast and a pauper, scorned by all? It is for you to say."

"I don't know," she answered, hoarsely. "Take me to the church--I will
decide there."

He had taken her, led her in, placed her in one of the pews, and left
her. His manifold duties kept him with Mr. Darcy; he would be unable to
join Norine again that day.

The church filled; an hour before the ceremony it was crowded. Then they
came; the bridegroom a trifle pale and nervous, as bridegrooms are wont
to be, but, as usual, handsome of face and elegant of attire. Then on
her guardian's arm, the bride, a dazzling vision of white satin, Honiton
lace, pearl, orange blossoms, gold hair, and tender drooping face. A
breathless hush fills the church--in that hush the officiating clergyman
came forth--in that hush the bridal party take their places, a flock of
white bridesmaids, a group of black gentlemen. And then a voice out of
that great stillness speaks.

"If any here know of just cause or impediment why these two should not
be joined in the bonds of matrimony, let him speak now, or forever hold
his peace."

Mr. Liston turns his quiet face and watchful eyes to one particular pew,
to one slender figure and veiled face. The five seconds that follow are
as five centuries to the bridegroom. His face is quite white, his gloved
fingers are like ice. He glances up at Liston, and then--the ceremony
begins. What a horrible time it takes, Laurence Thorndyke thinks; what a
horrible ordeal a fashionable public marriage is. Does a dingy hotel
parlor rise before him, the rain beating on the windows, and a pale,
wistful face look up at him, while a mockery of this solemn rite is
being gabbled through by a tipsy actor? Is it the fair, happy, downcast
face of his bride he sees or that other face as he saw it last, all
white and drawn i