vy black mourning came
home that she had clothed herself in other garments.

The day before that fixed for the marriage she and her father went
down to Herefordshire together, the conversation on the way being
all in respect to Everett. Where was he to live? What was he to do?
What income would he require till he should inherit the good things
which destiny had in store for him? The old man seemed to feel that
Providence, having been so very good to his son in killing that other
heir, had put rather a heavy burden on himself. "He'll want a house
of his own, of course," he said, in a somewhat lachrymose tone.

"I suppose he'll spend a good deal of his time at Wharton."

"He won't be content to live in another man's house altogether, my
dear; and Sir Alured can allow him nothing. It means, of course, that
I must give him a thousand a year. It seems very natural to him, I
dare say, but he might have asked the question before he took a wife
to himself."

"You won't be angry with him, papa!"

"It's no good being angry. No;--I'm not angry. Only it seems that
everybody is uncommonly well pleased without thinking who has to pay
for the piper."

On that evening, at Wharton, Emily still wore her mourning dress. No
one, indeed, dared to speak to her on the subject, and Mary was even
afraid lest she might appear in black on the following day. We all
know in what condition is a house on the eve of a marriage,--how
the bride feels that all the world is going to be changed, and that
therefore everything is for the moment disjointed; and how the rest
of the household, including the servants, are led to share the
feeling. Everett was of course away. He was over at Longbarns with
the Fletchers, and was to be brought to Wharton Church on the
following morning. Old Mrs. Fletcher was at Wharton Hall,--and the
bishop, whose services had been happily secured. He was formally
introduced to Mrs. Lopez, the use of the name for the occasion being
absolutely necessary, and with all the smiling urbanity which as a
bishop he was bound to possess, he was hardly able not to be funereal
as he looked at her and remembered her story. Before the evening was
over Mrs. Fletcher did venture to give a hint. "We are so glad you
have come, my dear."

"I could not stay away when Everett said he wished it."

"It would have been wrong; yes, my dear,--wrong. It is your duty, and
the duty of us all, to subordinate our feelings to those of others.
Even sor