edding tears tenderly, and thinking of her own betrothal.
That Lawrence was poor was a small matter to her, compared with the fact
that Marion was loved at last, and happy. Lawrence was a Vickery, and
the son of her old friend; besides, to her, as to most Southern women,
the world is very well lost for the sake of love.

And Bro, over at the saw-mill?

His red lights shone across the marsh as usual, and he was in his
work-room; in his hand was the model of his valve. He had made it tell
a lie that night; he had used it as a mask. He gazed at it, the creature
of his brain, his companion through long years, and he felt that he no
longer cared whether it was good for anything or not! Then he remembered
listlessly that it _was_ good for nothing; the highest authorities had
said so. But, gone from him now was the comprehension of their reasons,
and this he began to realize. He muttered over a formula, began a
calculation, both well known to him; he could do neither. His mind
strayed from its duty idly, as a loose bough sways in the wind. He put
his hands to his head and sat down. He sat there motionless all night.

But oh, how happy Marion was! Not effusively, not spokenly, but
internally; the soft light shining out from her heart, however, as it
does through a delicate porcelain shade. Old Mr. Vickery was delighted
too, and a new series of invitations followed in honor of the betrothal;
even the superintendent was invited, and came on his hand-car. Bro was
included also, but he excused himself. His excuses were accepted without
insistence, because it was understood that he was almost heart-broken by
his disappointments. Joy and sorrow meet. When the engagement had lasted
five weeks, and Marion had had thirty-five days of her new happiness,
the old grandfather died, rather suddenly, but peacefully, and without
pain. Through a long, soft April day he lay quietly looking at them all,
speechless but content; and then at sunset he passed away. Mrs. Manning
wept heartily, and Marion too; even Lawrence was not ashamed of the
drops on his cheeks as he surveyed the kind old face, now for ever
still. Everybody came to the funeral, and everybody testified respect;
then another morning broke, and life went on again. The sun shines just
the same, no matter who has been laid in the earth, and the flowers
bloom. This seems to the mourner a strange thing, and a hard. In this
case, however, there was no one to suffer the extreme pain of vi