lergyman, but he might
do better if he chose, I'm sure."

Her brother thought _that_ was hardly possible, though he did not say
so; neither did he add--lest he should vex his foolishly aristocratic
sister--that but for Mr. Loring the chances were that she would be
called upon, so far as his inclinations were concerned, to receive
Miss Gordon not as a room-mate, but as a sister, before the year was
ended.

CHAPTER V.

THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE.

A stranger would have asked the reason of the commotion in the
village, though every one of its inhabitants, from highest to lowest,
knew that it was the morning of their pastor's bridal. None, not even
the oldest and gravest of the community, wondered--or shook their
heads in disapprobation of the choice. They had known Mary Gordon from
her earliest childhood--they saw her now an earnest and thoughtful
woman, with a heart to plan kind and charitable deeds, and a hand that
did not pause in their execution. They knew, moreover, that for two
years she had refused to take new vows upon herself because she felt
that her mother needed her care; but now that health once more reigned
in the good deacon's dwelling, she was this day to become a wife, and
leave her father's roof, for a new home and more extended duty.

Again we look upon the village church, but it is no mournful
procession that passes up its shaded aisles. There are white-robed
maidens thronging around, and men with sun-burned faces. Children,
too, scarce large enough to grasp the flowers which they tear from the
shrubs that climb to the very windows of the sanctuary; and through
the crowd comes the bridal train. Mary Gordon, leaning upon the arm of
her betrothed, is more beautiful than ever, for a quiet dignity is now
added to the grace that ever marked her footsteps; and he, in the
pride of his manhood, looks with pride and tenderness upon her.

The deacon is there, with his heavy, good-natured face, lighted by an
expression of profound content; and his wife is by his side, looking
less calm and placid than usual, though she is very happy. It may be
that she fears for her daughter's future welfare, though that can
scarcely be when the dearest wish of her heart is about to be
fulfilled; or, perhaps, as her eye wanders from the gay group around
her, it rests upon a little grassy mound not far away, and she is
thinking of one who would have been the fairest and the best beloved
of all.

Stephen seemed to feel a lit