he shining hair to the tiny white satin slipper just peeping
from beneath the rich folds of the dress. Flowers are her only ornament
to-night, and truly she needs no other.

"Perfect! nothing superfluous, nothing wanting," says Lottie King.

Rose, looking almost like a young girl herself, so sweet and fair in her
beautiful evening dress, came in at that instant to see if all was right
in the bride's attire. Her eyes grew misty while she gazed, her heart
swelling with a strange mixture of emotions: love, joy, pride, and a touch
of sadness at the thought of the partial loss that night was to bring to
her beloved husband and herself.

"Am I all right, mamma?" asked Elsie.

"I can see nothing amiss," Rose answered, with a slight tremble in her
voice. "My darling, I never saw you so wondrously sweet and fair," she
whispered, adjusting a fold of the drapery. "You are very happy?"

"Very, mamma dear; yet a trifle sad too. But that is a secret between you
and me. How beautiful you are to-night."

"Ah, dear child, quite ready, and the loveliest bride that ever I saw,
from the sole of your head to the crown of your foot," said a silvery
voice, as a quaint little figure came softly in and stood at Mrs.
Dinsmore's side--"no, I mean from the crown of your foot to the sole of
your head. Ah, funerals are almost as sad as weddings. I don't know how
people can ever feel like dancing at them."

"Well, auntie dear, there'll be no dancing at mine," said Elsie, smiling
slightly.

"I must go and be ready to receive our guests," said Rose, hearing the
rumble of carriage wheels. "Elsie, dear child," she whispered, "keep calm.
You can have no doubts or fears in putting your future in----"

"No, no, mamma, not the slightest," and the fair face grew radiant.

As Rose passed out at one door, Miss Stanhope following, with a parting
injunction to the bride not to grow frightened or nervous, Mr. Dinsmore
entered by another.

He stood a moment silently gazing upon his lovely daughter; then a slight
motion of his hand sent all others from the room, the bridesmaids passing
into the boudoir, where the groom and his attendants were already
assembled, the tirewomen vanishing by a door on the opposite side.

"My darling!" murmured the father, in low, half tremulous accents, putting
his arm about the slender waist, "my beautiful darling! how can I give you
to another?" and again and again his lips were pressed to hers in long,
passionate kisses.