Coway, Lord Formanton's son." They had
to proceed to London, and then the
ceremony was to take place in the wilderness
of an old city church. The noble father
and mother of the clever Conway "set
their faces" against this alliance. Human
natures are never indisposed thus
to magnify a matter they slightly disapprove
of into a serious outrage, and so
Lady Formanton told her fine friends at
those fine parties she was now beginning to
resume that "she knew literally nothing
about the matter," and that she had no
scruple in saying publicly that she and
Lord Formanton quite disapproved of the
matter. This was yet another reason for
making the matter quite private.

As the day drew near the little shadows
and phantoms which had disturbed the
lovers began to clear off. Their approaching
happiness, like some sharp stimulant,
banished all these dreary recollections and
doubts; made them seem indeed foolish.
They came even to that frame of mind
which made them consider it a duty to put
such idle disturbers far away, as the truly
just man will turn away from very plausible
scruples.

As they walked about the great
metropolis, and the doctor stalking in front
attracted attention as he affected to be a
regular resident, and defeated his aims by
loud proclamations and descriptions of
very familiar objects, Conway said to her,
"Now, indeed, I feel that a new life is to
begin for us both. I shall have that rest
which I have so long sought, and which is
so necessary if there is any scheme to be
carried out. There is time for such a
future, dearest Jessica. Together we shall
surprise the world."

She looked at him fondly. Even for
her the mere change was a new life after
the prison discipline at her father's—that
all but convict life where the doctor had
literally held little more communication
with her than a jailor would with his
prisoners.

Only the day before the marriage, Conway
and his future wife were walking about in
this supreme stage of tranquil happiness—
he laying out plans, and expatiating on that
new and future life of theirs which she
delighted to hear of. "Ah, here," he said at
last, "I am so rejoiced that this last day of
the old life has arrived, and that the curtain
comes down here to shut out the past.
Today is the last day that I shall turn my face
backwards and look at it. I shall think of
that poor girl now for the last time, and
for the last time of that act I was about to
do—the only one in my life which I may
indeed blush for. And yet even on that
last day of her life I felt scruples, and I do
think I might have gone to her, finding
the struggle intolerable, and have
withdrawn. I have searched my heart, and I
solemnly declare I would have done this.
And yet she loved me; and even when
that stroke overtook her she was thinking
of me!"

The colour came to Jessica's cheek.
"Loved you!" she said, warmly. "I do
not believe it. You must not think that.
At least part of it came, I fear, from a
dislike of me. And as for her last
thoughts—"

"Yes!" he said, interested. "Tell me
about that; tell me all about her and
yourself, as I have told you about myself.
Just for this last day, and we have done
with the subject for ever. You saw her
then?"

Would it not be better to tell him all
now, and leave no secret on her soul? And
yet how could she explain that mysterious
concealment?

When she now recalled, almost with
alarm, that she had told no one of having
been with Miss Panton when she was
seized with that illness, she felt she could
not tell it without embarrassment then;
at least she must think it over. He saw
her hesitation, and said smiling:

"I understand. I am not to know all
secrets. I see—"

The voice of the doctor, stentorian and
blustering, came in with an intrusive blast,
and that opportunity passed away. Never,
never, of all the many times when that
obstreperous clergyman had interfered had
he been so fatally mal àpropos.

Here was the morning. The old church
was so lonely, so vast, so white, and
sepulchral; there might have been a dozen
ceremonies going on without interfering with
each other. It might have done duty as a
vast ecclesiastical barn, for laying up holy
grain, and would have been more useful in
that capacity than in the one for which it
had been constructed. It might have been
the Hall of Lost Footsteps over and over
again, and it seemed to be furnished with
many fixtures—cupboards and groaning
presses, shelves, with a huge packing-case
or two lying about, which resolved themselves
into galleries, pews, pulpit, and reading-desk.

Here, upon this bright marriage morning,
came a small party, as it were, crawling
over the pavement of that huge white store
like a few mice in a granary. There was