It was as if no one else could smile that morning, except Mr. Edmonstone, who was so pleased to see her looking cheerful, in her altered dress, that he kissed her repeatedly, and confidentially told Mrs. Henley that his little Amy was a regular darling, the sweetest girl in the world, poor dear, except Laura.

Mrs. Henley, in the richest of all silks, looked magnificent and superior. Mrs. Edmonstone had tears in her eyes, and attended to every one softly and kindly, without a word; Charlotte was grave, helpful, and thoughtful; Charles watching every one, and intent on making things smooth; Laura looked fixed in the forced composure which she had long ago learnt, and Philip,—it was late before he appeared at all, and when he came down, there was nothing so plainly written on his face as headache.

It was so severe that the most merciful thing was to send him to lie on the sofa in the dressing-room. Amabel said she would fetch him some camphor, and disappeared, while Laura sat still with her forced composure. Her father fidgeted, only restrained by her presence from expressing his fears that Philip was too unwell for the marriage to take place to-day, and Charles talked cheerfully of the great improvement in his general health, saying this was but a chance thing, and that on the whole he might be considered as quite restored.

Mrs. Henley listened and answered, but could not comprehend the state of things. Breakfast was over, when she heard Amabel speaking to Laura in the ante-room.

‘It will go off soon. Here is a cup of hot coffee for you to take him. I’ll call you when it is time to go.’

Amabel and Charlotte were very busy looking after Laura’s packing up, and putting all that was wanted into the carriage, in which the pair were to set off at once from church, without returning to Hollywell.

At the last moment she went to warn Philip it was time to go, if he meant to walk to church alone, the best thing for his head.

‘It is better,’ said Laura, somewhat comforted.

‘Much better for your bathing it, thank you,’ said Philip, rising; then, turning to Amy,—‘Do I wish you good-bye now?’

‘No, I shall see you at church, unless you don’t like to have my blackness there.’

‘Would we not have our guardian angel, Laura?’ said Philip.

‘You know he would have been there,’ said Amy. ‘No one would have been more glad, so thank you for letting me come.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Laura, earnestly. ‘It is a comfort.’

They left her, and she stood a few minutes to enjoy the solitude, and to look from the window at her little girl, whom she had sent out with Anne. She was just about to open the window to call to her, and make her look up with one of her merry shouts of ‘Mamma!’ when Philip came out at the garden-door, and was crossing the lawn. Mary was very fond of him, flattered by the attention of the tallest person in the house, and she stretched her arms, and gave a cry of summons. Amabel watched him turn instantly, take her from her nurse, and hold her in a close embrace, whilst her little round arms met round his neck. She was unwilling to be restored to Anne, and when he left she looked up in his face, and unprompted, held up to him the primroses and violets in her hand.

Those flowers were in his coat when Amabel saw him again at church, and she knew that this spontaneous proof of affection from Guy’s little unconscious child was more precious to him than all the kindnesses she could bestow.

Little space was there for musing, for it was high time to set off for church. Mary Ross met the party at the wicket of the churchyard, took Charles on her arm, and by look and sign inquired for Amy.

‘Bright outwardly,’ he answered, ‘and I think so inwardly. Nothing does her so much good as to represent him. Did you wonder to see her?’

‘No’ said Mary. ‘I thought she would come. It is the crowning point of his forgiveness.’

‘Such forgiveness that she has forgotten there is anything to forgive,’ said Charles.

Philip Morville and Laura Edmonstone stood before Mr. Ross. It was not such a wedding as the last. There was more personal beauty, but no such air of freshness, youth, and peace. He was, indeed, a very fine-looking man, his countenance more noble than it had ever been, though pale and not only betraying the present suffering of the throbbing, burning brow, but with the appearance of a care-worn, harassed man, looking more as if his age was five-and-thirty than eight-and-twenty. And she, in her plain white muslin and quiet bonnet, was hardly bridal-looking in dress, and so it was with her face, still beautiful and brilliant in complexion, but with the weight of care permanent on it, and all the shades of feeling concealed by a fixed command of countenance, unable, however, to hide the oppression of dejection and anxiety.

Yet to the eyes that only beheld the surface, there was nothing but prosperity and happiness in a marriage between a pair who had loved so long and devotedly, and after going through so much for each other’s sake, were united at length, with wealth, honour, and distinction before them. His health was re-established, and the last spring had proved that his talents would place him in such a position as had been the very object of his highest hopes. Was not everything here for which the fondest and most aspiring wishes could seek? Yet for the very reason that there was sadness at almost every heart, not one tear was shed. Mrs. Edmonstone’s thoughts were less engrossed with the bride than with the young slender figure in black, standing in her own drooping way, her head bent down, and the fingers of her right hand clasping tight her wedding-ring, through her white glove.

The service was over. Laura hung round her mother’s neck in an ardent embrace.

‘Your pardon! O, mamma, I see it all now!’

Poor thing! she had too much failed in a daughter’s part to go forth from her home with the clear, loving, hopeful heart her sister had carried from it! Mrs. Edmonstone’s kiss was a full answer, however, a kiss unlike what it had been with all her efforts for many and many a month.

‘Amy, pray that it may not be visited!’ were the last words breathed to her sister, as they were pressed in each other’s arms.

Philip scarcely spoke, only met their kindnesses with grateful gestures and looks, and brief replies, and the parting was hastened that he might as soon as possible be at rest. His only voluntary speech was as he bade farewell to Amabel,—

‘My sister now!’

‘And his brother,’ she answered. ‘Good-bye!’

As soon as Amabel was alone in the carriage with Charles, she leant back, and gave way to a flood of tears.

‘Amy, has it been too much?’

‘No,’ she said, recovering herself; ‘but I am so glad! It was his chief desire. Now everything he wished is fulfilled.’

‘And you are free of your great charge. He has been a considerable care to you, but now he is safe on Laura’s hands, and well and satisfactory; so you have no care but your daughter, and we settle into our home life.’

Amabel smiled.

‘Amy, I do wish I was sure you are happy.’

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