be startled if she looks at his face." And a
sentence which she had not read for years came
back to her mind. "For as brent as your brow
is, there is that in it that is as near akin to
death as to wedlock."

But Elsie saw nothing: during the whole
service she did not once raise her eyes. Only
once she shrank, when Philip seized her hand
with a grasp as hot as fire, squeezing her soft
little fingers with a positively painful force.
And once again she started when the vicar's
impressive voice pronounced the solemn words:
"What God hath joined, let no man put
asunder." For then the hot hand holding hers
suddenly became as chill as death.

It was over. Mr. Denbigh had only to
draw his wife's arm through his, and take her
down the short path to the churchyard cottage,
where she was to change her sober bridal
dress for some dark travelling gear more
suited to a wintry journey. The sea-side place
to which they were bound was barely ten miles
distant, and the post-chaise which was to
convey them thither was ready packed at the door
when they left the church, so Mrs. Denbigh
did not wonder that her husband hurried her
away from the congratulating crowd at the
church door, muttering something about making
haste lest they should be caught in the snow-
storm, now evidently imminent.

When she came down-stairs from her hasty
toilet, she found her husband standing by the
fire, his face buried in his folded arms, which
rested on the mantelshelf. His attitude was
so expressive of suffering, mental or bodily,
that she hastened to him, asking if he were ill.

"Ill? No," he answered; but with such a
face that she exclaimed:

"You are, I am sure. What is the matter,
Philip?"

"I was in the clouds—or in the fire," he
answered with a laugh. "Are you ready?"

"In one moment; but look, Philip; I
wanted to show you my finger. You see it has
only your ring on it now. Last night, the
other was as tightly fixed as ever, but in the
morning it had slipped off of its own accord.
Is it not strange?"

Her husband made no answer; indeed he
hardly seemed to hear her, so intent was he on
folding her wraps about her, and hurrying her
into the carriage.

He leaned back in total silence while they
drove up the village street, lined with gazers.
His wife saw from the impatient movement of
his foot that he was suffering under some
annoyance, and thought that he was vexed for
her sake by the number of people, who showed
their interest, in their rough country fashion, by
staring with all their eyes.

"I don't mind, Philip," she said, turning to
him. Again the look on his face startled her.

Next moment, as they left the village
behind them, and emerged into the quiet country
road, he clasped her in his arms:

"Mine at last! There is no power in heaven
or earth, my Elsie, that can part us now."

"I had no idea," said Mrs. Carter to her
husband, when they talked over the wedding
that evening, "that Mr. Denbigh could be so
nervous and queer. I always thought him
disagreeable, but I never knew him so perfectly
odious as he was this morning—rushing off with
Elsie without letting her even say thank you,
when we were all wishing her joy; and glaring at
everybody as if he defied them to look at her.
Such horrid bad manners! And all the time
did you ever see such a face? I am sure he
looked more as if he were going to be hanged
than married."

"A man always does look a fool on these
occasions," said the vicar.

During the night the impending snow fell
heavily. When Mrs. Denbigh drew up her
window-blind, and looked out next morning,
it was on a world as white as her wedding
veil.

The snow lasted all through the week, and
was lying deep and hard frozen on the ground
when Mr. Denbigh brought home his bride.
It was quite dark, except for the dreary cold
light from the white ground, when their fly
drove along the village street, and turned up
the narrow lane which led to Abbot's Portion.
As it stopped at the gate, the door was flung
open, and old Isott appeared, with a lighted
candle and a beaming face. The little entrance-
hall looked cheerful: still more cheerful looked
the sitting-room, of which the open door gave
a sight, all bright with fire and candle, and gay
with white papering and soft moss carpet, and
groups of low chairs and graceful little tables,
and endless dainty devices, all wonderfully
unlike the usual fittings in the "best parlour"
of a country surgeon's wife. Elsie Denbigh
had hardly time for an exclamation of delighted
surprise, for her husband's one idea was to get
her out of the cold; and it was not until he
had almost carried her to the fireside, and
unfastened her many wrappers, that she could
look round and take in the gay bridal effect of
the room.

"How beautiful!" she cried, when at last she
had studied every detail of delicate chintz and
fresh well-chosen furniture; "and all my
own belongings from the cottage, fitted in,
as if they had always been here! Are you a
conjuror, Philip? Ah, now I know why you
had business here, and left me for nearly a
whole day. How charming it all is!"

"Do you really like it, Elsie? Does it
please you? Are you sure?"

"Like it? Do I not? What an array of
books!" She kneeled to examine the book-
shelves, which filled a recess near the fireplace.
"You will read to me, won't you, Philip, and
teach me to like all the books that you are
fond of? And oh, a grand piano!"

"It has always been my ambition to give
you that, Elsie; sit down and sing me one of
your songs—worth all the books that ever were
written."

Elsie obeyed, and for the next hour sang