ne instant from earth, and all she held most dear, on her son's
wedding-day. And then Aileen, remembering how much the dead woman had
loved her, and how fondly she had welcomed her as a daughter, covered
her face with her hands, and wept as she might have wept for her own
mother.

"I never knew a mother's love or care," Aileen thought; "and I was
doubly happy in knowing I was to have one at last. And now--and now--"

It was a drearily long morning to the poor bride elect, sitting alone in
her chamber, or pacing restlessly up and down. She heard the roll of
carriages up the drive, the pause that ensued, and then their departure.
She wondered how _he_ bore it; best of all, May had said; but then he
was ever still, and strong, and self-restrained. She knew how dear that
poor, ailing mother had ever been to him, and she knew how bitterly he
would feel her loss.

"They talk of presentiments," mused Miss Jocyln, walking wearily to and
fro; "and see how happy and hopeful I was this morning, while she lay
dead and he mourned. If I only dared go to him--my own Rupert."

It was late in the afternoon before Col. Jocyln returned. He strode
straight to his daughter's presence, wearing a pale, fagged face.

"Well, papa?" she asked, faintly.

"My pale Aileen!" he said, kissing her fondly, "my poor, patient girl. I
am sorry you must undergo this trial, and," knitting his brows, "such
talk as it will make."

"Don't think of me, papa--my share is surely the lightest. But
Rupert,--" wistfully faltering.

"There's something odd about Rupert; he was very fond of his mother, and
he takes this a great deal too quietly. He looks like a man slowly
turning to stone, with a face white and stern, and inscrutable; and he
never asked for you. He sat there with folded arms, and that petrified
face, gazing on his dead, until it chilled my blood to look at him.
There's something odd and unnatural in this frozen calm. And, oh!
by-the-by? I forgot to tell you the strangest thing--May Everard it was
who told me; that painter fellow--what's his name--"

"Legard, papa?"

"Yes, Legard. He turns out to be the son of Mrs. Weymore--they
discovered it last night. He was there in the room with the most dazed
and mystified, and altogether bewildered expression of countenance I
ever saw a man wear; and May and Mrs. Weymore sat crying incessantly. I
couldn't see what occasion there was for the governess and the painter
there in that room of death--and I