ing let off so easily. He dreaded the ceremony.'

Which was very true, though Rolfe had not divulged it.

His personal possessions were now to be made ready for removal. The
books represented nearly all that he could carry away from his old
rooms, but they were a solid addendum to the garnishing of home. For a
moment he thought of selling a few score of volumes. Would he ever
really want those monumental tomes--the six folios of Muratori, for
instance, which he liked to possess, but had never used? Thereby hung
the great, the unanswerable question: How was he going to spend his
life as a married man? Was it probable that he would become a serious
student, or even that he would study as much as heretofore? No
foreseeing; the future must shape itself, even as the past had done.
After all, why dismember his library for the sake of saving a few
shillings on carriage? If he did not use the books himself----

A thought flashed through him which made his brain, unsteady. If he did
not use the books himself, perhaps----

He tried to laugh, but for five minutes was remarkably sober. No, no;
of course he would keep his library intact.

And now there was a duty to perform: he must write to his friends, make
known his marriage; the letters to be posted only on the day of fate.
Dear old Basil Morton--how he would stare! Morton should soon come down
into Wales, and there would be great quaffing and smoking and talking
into the small hours; a jolly anticipation! And Hugh Carnaby! Hugh
would throw up his great arms, clench his huge red fists, and roar with
mocking laughter. Good old boy! out there on the other side of the
world, perhaps throwing away his money, with the deft help of a
swindler. And the poor lad, Cecil Morphew! who assuredly would never
pay back that fifty pounds--to which he was heartily welcome. Morphew
had kept his promise to quit the garret in Chelsea, but what was since
become of him Harvey knew not; the project of their going together into
Wales had, of course, fallen through.

Lastly, Mary Abbott--for so had Harvey come to name his friend's widow.
Mary Abbott! how would she receive this news? It would come upon her as
the strangest surprise; not the mere fact of his marrying, but that he
had chosen for a wife, out of the whole world, the daughter of Bennet
Frothingham. Would she be able to think kindly of him after this? Of
Mrs. Frothingham she could speak generously, seeming to have outlived
natural bitter