In the principal event of the past day—­the engagement of Dick Percival and Maud Dinsmore—­and the talk of other days and events which ensued, Mrs. Elsie Travilla’s thoughts had been carried back to the happy time of her own betrothal and marriage to the one whom she had so loved as friend, lover, and husband.  She seemed to see him again as he was then, to hear his low breathed words of tenderest affection, and her tears fell fast at the thought that never again in this life should their sweet music fall upon her ear.

But well she knew that the separation was only temporary; that they should meet again in the better land, where sickness, sorrow, and death can never enter, meet never more to part.

She was alone in her boudoir, and, wiping away her tears, she knelt down in prayer, asking for strength to bear patiently and submissively the loss that was at times so grievous, and craving God’s blessing upon the young relatives so soon to take upon them the marriage vows.  Nor did she forget her own daughter so recently united to the man of her choice, or any other of her dear ones.  Her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she thought of them all, healthy, happy, and in comfortable circumstances; her dear old father and his lovely wife still spared to her, and the dear grandchildren who seemed to renew to her the youthful days of her own children, the fathers and mothers of these.

Her thoughts were still full of motherly and grandmotherly cares and joys as she laid her head upon her pillow and passed into the land of dreams.

When she awoke again it was to find the sun shining and the air full of the breath of flowers and the morning songs of the little birds in the tree tops just beyond her windows.  She rose and knelt beside her bed, while her heart sent up its song of gratitude and praise, its petitions for grace and strength according to her day, asking the same for her dear ones also, and that she and they might be kept from accident, folly, and sin.

As she made her toilet her thoughts again referred to Maud and her present needs, which could not well be supplied for lack of time.

“Can I not help the dear girl in some way?” she asked herself.

Then a sudden thought came to her and she hastened to a large closet, unlocked a trunk standing there, and took from it a package carefully wrapped in a large towel.  Carrying it to a sofa in her boudoir she unpinned it and brought to light a dress of richest white satin, having an overskirt of point lace, and, beside it, a veil of the same costly material.

“As beautiful as ever,” she sighed softly to herself.  “And the dress would, I think, fit Maud, with little or no alteration.  It would be something of a trial to part with them permanently, but surely I can spare them to Maud for a few hours.  It would give her pleasure, for she would look lovely in them, and every woman wants to look her very best at her bridal.”