poetry of wedlock does not lie in these
details--a sugared cake, and satin favours; a string of carriages, and
a Brussels veil. The true poetry of marriage is in the devotion and
fidelity of the two hearts it binds together."

Mrs Tempest sighed gently, and was almost resigned to be married
without bridesmaids or orange-blossoms.

It was now within a month of the wedding, which was to be solemnised on
the last day of August--a convenient season for a honeymoon tour in
Scotland. Mrs. Tempest liked to travel when other people travelled.
Mountain and flood would have had scarcely any charm for her "out of
the season." The time had come when Violet's dress must be talked
about, as Mrs. Tempest told the Vicar's wife solemnly. She had confided
the secret of her daughter's unkindness to Mrs. Scobel, in the friendly
hour of afternoon tea.

"It is very hard upon me," she repeated--"very hard that the only
drawback to my happiness should come from my own child."

"Violet was so fond of her father," said Mrs. Scobel excusingly.

"But is that any reason she should treat me unkindly? Who could have
been fonder of dear Edward than I was? I studied his happiness in
everything. There never was an unkind word between us. I do not think
anyone could expect me to go down to my grave a widow, in order to
prove my affection for my dearest Edward. That was proved by every act
of my married life. I have nothing to regret, nothing to atone for. I
feel myself free to reward Captain Winstanley's devotion. He has
followed me from place to place for the last two years; and has
remained constant, in spite of every rebuff. He proposed to me three
times before I accepted him."

Mrs. Scobel had been favoured with the history of these three separate
offers more than once.

"I know, dear Mrs. Tempest," she said somewhat hurriedly, lest her
friend should recapitulate the details. "He certainly seems very
devoted. But, of course, from a worldly point of view, you are an
excellent match for him."

"Do you think I would marry him if I thought that consideration had any
weight with him?" demanded Mrs. Tempest indignantly. And Mrs. Scobel
could say no more.

There are cases of physical blindness past the skill of surgery, but
there is no blindness more incurable than that of a woman on the verge
of forty who fancies herself beloved.

"But Violet's dress for the wedding," said Mrs. Scobel, anxious to get
the conversation upon safer ground. "Have