looked at him with her
happy, tear-stained eyes--"then we will starve together, won't we, you
and I?"

CHAPTER IX.

The wedding-day came, not as such joyful days usually come. It was as
still as death in the house, which was still plunged in the deepest
mourning.

The large suite of rooms had been opened and warmed, and over
Gertrude's door hung a garland of sober evergreen. The day before the
door-bell had had no rest, and one costly present after another had
been handed in. All the magnificence of massive silver, majolica,
Persian rugs and other costly things had been spread out on a long
table in the bow-window room. A gardener's assistant was still moving
softly about in the salon, decorating the improvised altar with orange
trees. The fine perfume of _pastilles_ lingered in the air and the
flame from the open fire was reflected in the glass drops of the
chandelier and the smooth _marqueterie_ of the floor. Outside, the
weather was treacherously mild. It was the first of March.

Mrs. Baumhagen had been crying and groaning all the morning, and
between the arrangements for the wedding, she had been giving orders
respecting her own journey. The huge trunks stood ready packed in the
hall. The next day but one they would start for Heidelberg to see a
celebrated doctor.

As for Gertrude's trousseau, her mother had not concerned herself about
it--she would attend to it herself. Gertrude's taste was very
extraordinary, at the best; if she liked blue Gertrude would be sure to
pronounce for red, it had always been so. Ah, this day was a dreadful
one to her, and it was only the end of weeks of torture. Since the
funeral of the baby, when her daughter had made such a scene, they had
been colder than ever to each other. Gertrude's eyes could look so
large, so wistful, as if they were always asking, "Why do you disturb
my happiness?"

She should be glad when they had fairly started on their journey.

At this time the ladies were all dressing; the wedding was to take
place at five o'clock. The faithful Sophie was helping Gertrude
to-day--she would not permit any one to take her place.

Gertrude had put on her wedding-dress, and Sophie was kneeling before
her, buttoning the white satin boots.

"Ah, Miss Gertrude," sighed the old woman, "it will be so lonely in the
house now. Little Walter dead and you away!"

"But I shall be so happy, Sophie." The soft girlish hand stroked the
wit