lf would be at Wharton on the happy day.
"Dear Mary," she said, "remember what I have suffered, and that
I cannot be quite as other people are. I could not stand at your
marriage in black clothes,--nor should I have the courage even if I
had the will to dress myself in others." None of the Whartons had
come to her wedding. There was no feeling of anger now left as to
that. She was quite aware that they had done right to stay away. But
the very fact that it had been right that they should stay away would
make it wrong that the widow of Ferdinand Lopez should now assist at
the marriage of one Wharton to another. This was all that a marriage
ought to be; whereas that had been--all that a marriage ought not to
be. In answer to the paragraph about Arthur Fletcher Emily Lopez had
not a word to say.

Soon after this, early in April, Everett came up to town. Though his
bride might be content to get her bridal clothes in Hereford, none
but a London tailor could decorate him properly for such an occasion.
During these last weeks Arthur Fletcher had not been seen in
Manchester Square; nor had his name been mentioned there by Mr.
Wharton. Of anything that may have passed between them Emily was
altogether ignorant. She observed, or thought that she observed, that
her father was more silent with her,--perhaps less tender than he had
been since the day on which her husband had perished. His manner of
life was the same. He almost always dined at home in order that she
might not be alone, and made no complaint as to her conduct. But she
could see that he was unhappy, and she knew the cause of his grief.
"I think, papa," she said one day, "that it would be better that I
should go away." This was on the day before Everett's arrival,--of
which, however, he had given no notice.

"Go away! Where would you go to?"

"It does not matter. I do not make you happy."

"What do you mean? Who says that I am not happy? Why do you talk like
that?"

"Do not be angry with me. Nobody says so. I can see it well enough. I
know how good you are to me, but I am making your life wretched. I am
a wet blanket to you, and yet I cannot help myself. If I could only
go somewhere, where I could be of use."

"I don't know what you mean. This is your proper home."

"No;--it is not my home. I ought to have forfeited it. I ought to go
where I could work and be of some use in the world."

"You might be of use if you chose, my dear. Your proper career is
before