ch old Chunt cordially assented.

Still, people were more lenient, and many a blessing was showered on the
blushing girl, who was led--nay, who led herself, feeble, broken Sir
Murray Gernon--into the church, while, when the service was over, a deep
hush fell upon all, and people held back with reverence; hats were
doffed, and words were spoken in whispers, for when, leaning upon her
husband's arm, Isa Norton came slowly through the porch, it was seen
that she bore a wreath of tiny flowers, and, to the surprise of all, she
stopped.

There was no fierce hand, though, to pluck them from her; and people
whispered more and more as they saw the tears standing brightly in her
eyes--tears of sorrow and happiness--thankfulness, too, for the bliss
that was theirs. The bells would have struck up, but whispered words
stayed the ringers; children would have flung flowers in the bride's
path, but, for a few moments, their little hands were arrested; for,
leaning upon Captain Norton's arm, both suffering strongly from the
emotion evoked from the past, Sir Murray Gernon now appeared, to stand
by his daughter's side; and the halt was by Lady Gernon's resting-place,
the family vault of the old family--the spot where, years before,
broken-hearted, mad almost, Philip Norton stood waiting the coming of
the bridal party.

Even the whispers now were stayed, for the Merland people felt that
something unusual was about to take place, and they were right; and for
long years after it was talked of, and handed down: for, with trembling
hand, Isa raised the wreath--the forget-me-not wreath--she held, and
laid it, her simple offering, upon the grave of the dead, where they
stood awhile, with bended heads, and then passed on. Then came the
silver chiming of the old--old bells; the children cast their flowers;
and long and hearty cheers rang out for the bridal pair; there was the
hurrying of footsteps, the trampling of horses, and the rush of wheels,
and the wedding procession swept away; but the simple wreath remained
where it had been placed--remained for people to say, again and again,
that the act was strange; but it was the token that Marion Gernon's
memory was fresh in every heart, and the colour of that wreath, wet with
her child's tears, was _True-blue_!

The End.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Sapphire Cross, by George Manville Fenn

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SAPPHIRE CROSS ***

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