struggle
she had been through, and, now that it was over and the doctor safe
from temptation, feeling that it was just as well; for, after all, it
was a _mesalliance_ for an heiress like her cousin to marry a poor
clergyman.

* * * * *

There was a very quiet wedding at Prospect Hill on the night of the
fifteenth, but neither Lucy nor Arthur were there. He lay sick again
at the St. Denis in New York and she was alone in her chamber,
fighting back her tears and praying that, now the worst was over, she
might be withheld from looking back and wishing the work undone. She
went with the bridal party to New York, where she tarried for a few
days, seeing no one but Anna, for whom she sent at once. The interview
had lasted more than an hour, and Anna's eyes were swollen with
passionate weeping when at last it ended, but Lucy's face, though
white as snow, was very calm and quiet, wearing a peaceful, placid
look, which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks later and the
steamer bore her away across the water, where she hoped to outlive the
storm which had beaten so piteously upon her. Thornton Hastings and
Anna went with her on board the ship, and for their sakes she tried to
appear natural, succeeding so well that it was a very pleasant picture
which Thornton cherished in his mind of a frail little figure standing
upon the deck, holding its waterproof together with one hand and with
the other waving a smiling adieu to Anna and himself.

More than a year after, Thornton Hastings followed that figure across
the sea, finding it in beautiful Venice, sailing again through the
moon-lit streets and listening to the music which came so oft from the
passing gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness and the face
was even more beautiful than it had been before, for the light
frivolity was all gone and there was reigning in its stead a peaceful,
subdued expression which made Lucy Harcourt very fair to look upon. At
least, so thought Thornton Hastings, and he lingered at her side,
feeling glad that she had given no outward token of agitation when he
said to her:

"There was a wedding at St. Mark's, in Hanover, just before I left;
can you guess who the happy couple were?"

"Yes--Arthur and Anna. She wrote me they were to be married on
Christmas Eve. I am so glad it has come round at last."

Then she questioned him of the bridal, of Arthur, and even of Anna's
dress, her manner evincing that