egant costume
for her. But I have always studied her dress. Even when she was in
pinafores I took care that she should be picturesque. And she rewards
my care by refusing to be present at my wedding. It is very cruel."

The clock struck twelve. The obscure bird clamoured a little louder in
his woodland haunt. The patient Pauline, who had packed everything and
arranged everything, and borne with her mistress's dolefulness all day
long, began to yawn piteously.

"If you'd let me brush your hair now, ma'am," she suggested at last, "I
could get to bed. I should like to be fresh to-morrow morning."

"Are you tired?" exclaimed Mrs. Tempest, wonderingly.

"Well, mum, stooping over them dress-baskets is rather tiring, and it's
past twelve."

"You can go. I'll brush my hair myself."

"No, mum, I wouldn't allow that anyhow. It would make your arms ache.
You ought to get to bed as soon as ever you can, or you'll look tired
and 'aggard to-morrow."

That word haggard alarmed Mrs. Tempest. She would not have objected to
look pale and interesting on her wedding-day, like one who had spent
the previous night in tears; but haggardness suggested age; and she
wanted to look her youngest when uniting herself to a husband who was
her junior by some years.

So Pauline was allowed to hurry on the evening toilet. The soft pretty
hair, not so abundant as it used to be, was carefully brushed; the
night-lamp was lighted; and Pauline left her mistress sitting by her
dressing-table in her flowing white raiment, pale, graceful, subdued in
colouring, like a classic figure in a faded fresco.

She sat with fixed eyes, deep in thought, for some time after Pauline
had left her, then looked uneasily at the little gem of a watch
dangling on its ormolu and jasper stand. A quarter to one. Violet must
have gone to bed hours ago; unless, indeed, Violet were like her
mother, too unhappy to be able to sleep. Mrs. Tempest was seized with a
sudden desire to see her daughter.

"How unkind of her never to come near me to say good-night, on this
night of all others!" she thought, "What has she been doing all day, I
wonder? Riding about the Forest, I suppose, like a wild girl, making
friends of dogs and horses, and gipsies, and fox-cubs, and
charcoal-burners, and all kinds of savage creatures."

And then, after a pause, she asked herself, fretfully:

"What will people say if my own daughter is not at my wedding?"

The idea of possible slander stung her