“Three months is a long time, Aunt Hepsy,” said Lucy at last.

Aunt Hepsy never spoke.

Then Lucy rose and came to her, and laid her arm about her neck.  “You don’t want me to go, auntie, I know you don’t.”

“Go away; I didn’t say I didn’t,” said Aunt Hepsy in her gruffest tones.

“Auntie, if you will only tell me you would rather I stayed, I won’t go.”

“Don’t ask questions, child.  I guess I’d never live through them three months.  As well go away for ever almost.”

“Then I won’t go,” said Lucy stoutly.  “I’d dearly like to be at Carrie’s wedding; but I can’t leave you, auntie, for so long.”  And from that decision no persuasion could induce Lucy to depart—­she was firm as a rock; but Aunt Hepsy made a little private arrangement of her own, which was to be kept a profound secret from the bride-elect.

Judge Keane travelled to New York the day before Christmas with a young lady under his care; and when the pair were ushered into Dr. Goldthwaite’s drawing-room, the bride-elect saw, peeping out from among the rich furs which Aunt Hepsy had provided for her darling, a face she loved very dearly, and which could belong to nobody in the world but Lucy Hurst.

They were all together in the long drawing-room, waiting only the coming of the bride, ere the solemn ceremony could be performed.  There was a large company, for the Goldthwaites had a wide circle of acquaintance.  Conspicuous among them were the friends we know best—­all the Keanes (save the invalid mother, who thought and prayed for them at home), and Tom and Lucy Hurst.  It had been a surprise to Lucy to find him at New York.  She had not expected to see him again till the summer-time.  She looked very fair and sweet in her delicate white dress, but was utterly unconscious of the admiration she was creating; and of the close observation of a pair of dark earnest eyes, which had been the first gleam of comfort to her when her mother died.

By-and-by, old white-haired Dr. Goldthwaite came in with Carrie on his arm, and they took their places silently; and in a very few minutes Frank had uttered the irrevocable words, and the wedding was over.  Then Mr. and Mrs. George Keane received abundant congratulations, and they adjourned to partake of breakfast.  In the hall stood a quantity of baggage labelled “Mrs. Keane,” which seemed very formidable, but was not much after all, considering the travellers were going to Europe.  Yes; the young pair were to have a six months’ tour before settling down at Pendlepoint, and some felt as if Carrie were going away for ever.  She looked very grave and sad; and when she came down ready to go, broke down utterly bidding her mother good-bye.

“Now then, this will never do,” said Judge Keane, with that comical smile of his.  “George, get your wife into the carriage, or we shall have her rueing she ever promised to follow you.”

Carrie smiled through her tears, and shook her finger at the judge.  Then, as she turned to go, a light touch fell upon her arm, and a low voice whispered tremulously,—­