er? He loved
her and her alone. She remembered the words spoken on her wedding-day;
when she had asked him if he was quite sure their marriage was legal,
his answer was, "Yes, and that nothing could part them except death."

How well she remembered those words, "except death"! He had taken her in
his arms and kissed her, as though even death itself should not claim
her. No shadow of fear entered her mind. She knew that he would come, as
surely as she knew that the sun would rise and the day would dawn.

The thirtieth of June. No gift of second sight came to her, to tell her
that on the twenty-seventh of June Lord Chandos had sat down and wrote
her a very long letter, telling her that it was impossible for him to be
at home on the thirtieth of June, as he had promised to go with his
parents to Spain. A large party were going, and he must join them; but
his heart would be with her on that day. He should think of her from
morning dawn until sunset, and he would be with her soon. He was vexed
that he had to take the journey; it was quite against his will, yet he
had been over-persuaded. He should soon see her now; and, whatever he
did, she must not feel in the least degree distressed, or put about.
Their happiness was only delayed for a short time.

A long letter. She had no gift of second sight; she could not see that
his face burned with a shameful flush as he wrote it; that for himself
he had no pity; that his heart went out to her with a warmer love than
ever, but that the fear of his mother's taunts and the pain on Lady
Marion's face kept him where he was.

Then, when the long letter was written, he directed it and sent it by
his valet to post; nor could she see how that same valet intended going
to post it at once, but was prevented, and then laid it aside for an
hour, as he thought, and forgot it for two whole days; then, fearing his
master's anger, said nothing about it, trusting that the delay might be
attributed to something wrong in the post; and so, on the very day it
should have been given to her, it was put into the post-office, three
days too late. She could not know all this, and she longed for the
thirtieth of June as the dying long for cold water, as the thirsty hart
for the clear spring.

It came. She had longed for it, waited for it, prayed for it, and now it
was here. She awoke early in the morning; it was to her as though a
bridegroom were coming; the song of the birds woke her, and they seemed
to