no show of bridesmaids, no filling up of the
regular stock parts. The doctor, ruffling
in his canonicals like some gigantic cock,
came out, and began the rite. His voice
echoed sonorously down that vast solitude,
and made the decrepit old pew-opener look
back and wonder at the needless and
unaccustomed noise. She looked round again
as she saw Dudley standing at the doorway,
and looking in. No one else saw
him, or turned round; but as the ceremony
came to a close he entered, and advanced
nearer and nearer, and as the party went
into the vestry he followed them in.

The new Mrs. Conway started as she
saw that dark, stern face, not at all coloured
with the conventional glow of congratulation.
Conway, always tranquil, never surprised,
received him with a good-natured
nod. Already for him the heavy folds of a
curtain had dropped over the past. He
would never raise even the corner to peep
behind. There were the usual formal
duties to be done, and while he was away
for a few moments Dudley drew near to
her and said:

"Ah, poor, poor Laura Panton! Who
thinks of her now?"

She turned away from him; the malignancy
of that reminder, so it seemed to her,
at such a moment needed no notice.

"She almost prophesied this to me," he
went on, as it were, to himself, "during
those last few moments when I was carrying
her to the bank."

Jessica started. "Carrying her to the
bank! What, you were there?"

"Yes. Oh that I had come up a few
moments sooner! That would have saved
her. She said her enemy would not cross
in the boat, but went round the long way,
so that she might die before help came.
Her enemy! Whom could she mean?"

"A boat! And there was a boat there!"
she faltered. "Oh, good Heaven!"

Here was the happy bridegroom, the
routine business done; here the "noble
father" out of his robes.

"I am offering my congratulations," said
Dudley, looking at her intently, "and
congratulate you too, Conway. A new life is
beginning for you."

"Yes," said he, pleased; "such as I have
never known yet. I have waited for it a
long time. You look tired and fatigued.
No wonder. Come, dearest. Remember,"
he whispered, "the curtain is down—that
is to be the background."

Unconscious of Dudley, they departed
for the great hotel where they were staying
Dudley looked after them long.
"This gives life an interest," he said, to
himself. " I may leave all now to work
itself out for a year and more."

      CHAPTER V. A CLOUD.

Two years have passed by since these
events, and Mr. Conway and his wife have
begun the happiest of lives. Both are so
changed—for the better, their friends say—
that they seem to have become different
people. The family difficulties had been
got into something like arrangement. He
enjoyed a small allowance from his father,
devoted himself to work, chiefly political
writing, and was already spoken of as
likely to be a promising man, "that would
make his mark." How sweet life was to
her now the sun, the flowers, the cities,
and pictures; things of quite a different
order now. For they travelled a good deal,
and saw the wonders of the world. If it
would only last. Yes; it must last.

They were coming home after a Welsh
tour, and were stopping on the road at a
little town called Brookside, with an old-
fashioned landlady, who, if you were ill,
would nurse you like a mother. There
were charming gardens, with a room that
opened out on them, excellent living, and
a whole treasury of delightful walks up hill
and down dale, with a very famous fishing
stream within a mile. Here a new and
delightful time set in. The weather was
delicious; the grass never was so green
and luxuriant; all the choice morsels of a
pastoral district, whose meat, and milk, and
butter are not madly whirled away every
morning, was spread out before them. The
landlady, too, grew into a friend, liking
her two guests, pleasant, and caring for
them in every way. Every one has a little
experience of this sort, and looks back
with a sort of comfort and satisfaction to
some such cot, where everything has gone
happily, where the flowers have smelt
sweetly, and whence he has been loath to
depart. Thus a most delightful fortnight
passed by. Jessica again found that she
had not half exhausted the joys which her
new life had promised her. More and yet
more were opening out before her. On
the last night of their stay—they were
forced to return home—she said to him:

"Oh, if this life could go on always!
Shall I confess something to you? That
one subject always seemed to cast a shadow.
It was no wonder that we shrank from it.
Now, dearest, I am grown so confident and