“Do you want me, Tom?”

“Want you, my darling?  What else on earth do I want but you?  And how lovely you are to-day, Dora!  You never looked like this before.”

“It never was my wedding-day before,” whispered Dora; and, like the summer day and the west wind, we will pass on, leaving these our lovers to their own fond folly, which yet is such wisdom as the philosophers and the savans can never give us by theory or diagram.

As the fair day waned to sunset, they were married; Mr. Brown saying the solemn words that barred from his own heart even the unrequited love that had been a dreary solace to it.  But Mr. Brown was not only a good man, but a strong man, and one of an iron determination; and so it was possible to him to say those words unfalteringly, and to look upon the bride-lovelier in her misty robes of white, and floating veil, than he had ever seen her before-with unfaltering eyes and unchanging color.  No great effort stops short at the end for which it was exerted; and the chaplain himself was surprised to find how calm his heart could be, and how little of pain or regret mingled with his honest admiration and affection for Thomas Burroughs’s wife.

The carriage stood ready in the lane, and in another hour they were gone; and let us say with Mrs. Ginniss,—­radiant in her new cap and gown,—­

“The blissing of God go with ’em! fur it’s thimsilves as desarves it.”

To those who remain behind when an absorbing interest is suddenly withdrawn, all ordinary events seem to have lost their connection with themselves, and to be dull, disjointed, and fatiguing.

Perhaps that was the reason why Kitty, as soon as the bridal party was out of sight, crept away to her own chamber, and cried as if her heart would break; but nothing except the natural love of mischief, inherent in even the sweetest of children, could have tempted ’Toinette, after visiting her, to go straight to Mr. Brown,—­strolling in the rambling old garden,—­and say,—­

“Now, Mr. Brown! did you say that you despised Kitty?”

“Despise Kitty!  Certainly not, my dear.  What made you think of such a thing?”

“Why, she said so.  She’s up in our room, crying just as hard!  And, when I asked her what was the matter, she hugged me up tight, and said nobody cared for her, and nobody would ever love her same as Cousin Tom does Dora.  And I told her, yes, they would, and maybe you would; and then she said, ‘Oh, no, no, no! he despises me!’ and then she cried harder than ever.  Tell her you don’t; won’t you, Mr. Brown?”

The chaplain looked much disturbed, and then very thoughtful; but, as the child still urged him with her entreaties, he said,—­

“Yes, I will tell her so, Sunshine, but not just now.  And mind you this, little girl,—­you must never, never let Kitty know that you told me what she said.  Will you promise?”

“Yes, I’ll promise.  I guess you’re afraid, if she knows, she’ll think you just say so to make her feel happy.  Isn’t that it?”