has no doubt told you all the externals. I
suppose there never was a brighter wedding, for as Annaple keeps her
mother with her, there was no real rending asunder of ties. Indeed I
almost wish her excitement did not always show itself in laughing, for
it prevents people from understanding how much there is in her.

(Plainly Hugh Condamine had been rather scandalised by the 'giggling
Scotch girl.')

'Dear old Lady Ronnisglen was delightful. If there were any tears,
they were hers, and Lady Delmar was very cordial and affectionate. Of
course Hugh and Mr. Dutton missed much that one would have liked in a
wedding. I drove back with them afterwards, and it was very
interesting to listen to their conversation about church matters. Hugh
is very much struck with your friend; he had heard a good deal about
Micklethwayte before, and says that such a lay worker is perfectly
invaluable. It is a great pity that he is not going on in the firm, it
would make it so much nicer for Mark, but he says he has duties towards
his new property. I think he was sorry not to find you at home, but he
plainly never thought it possible you should be at the wedding. I
don't know whether I ought to tell you this, but I think you ought to
know it. There is a lovely new wreath of Eucharis lilies and
maiden-hair at dear Aunt Alice's grave, close against the rails at the
feet, and Hugh told me that he looked out of his window very early
yesterday morning and saw Mr. Dutton standing there, leaning on the
rail, with his bare head bowed between his hands. You can't think how
it impressed Hugh. He said he felt reverent towards him all through
that day, and he was quite angry with Rosalind and Adela for jesting
because, when the shower began as we were coming out of church, Mr.
Dutton rushed up with an umbrella, being the only person there who had
one, I believe. Hugh says you may be proud of such a friend. I wish
you could have seen Hugh.--Your affectionate cousin,

'MARGARET EGREMONT.'

CHAPTER XXVI.

THREE YEARS LATER.

'There's something rotten in the State.'--Hamlet.

On an east-windy afternoon in March Mary Nugent emerged from the School
of Art, her well-worn portfolio under her arm, thinking how many
successive generations of boys and girls she had drilled through
'free-hand,' 'perspective,' and even 'life' with an unvarying average
of failure and very moderate success, and h