“Fine doings there, sir,” remarked the crossing-sweeper, who was still sweeping up the autumn leaves just as he had been doing when Frithiof had passed him after his interview with Blanche. “They say the bride’s an heiress and a beauty too. Well, well, it’s an unequal world!” and the old man stopped to indulge in a paroxysm of coughing, then held out a trembling hand. “Got a copper about you, sir?” he asked. Frithiof, just because the old man made that remark about an unequal world, dropped a sixpence into the outstretched palm. “God bless you, sir!” said the crossing-sweeper, beginning to sweep up the fallen leaves with more spirit than ever. “Violets, sir, sweet violets?” cried a girl, whose eye had caught the gleam of the silver coin. She held the basket toward him, but he shook his head and walked hurriedly away toward the church. Yet the incident never left his memory, and to the end of his life the scent of violets was hateful to him. Like one in a nightmare, he reached the church door. The organ was crashing out a jubilant march; there was a sort of subdued hum of eager anticipation from the crowd of spectators. “Are you a friend of the bride, sir?” asked an official. “No,” he said icily. “Then the side aisle, if you please, sir. The middle aisle is reserved for friends only.” He quietly took the place assigned him and waited. It did not seem real to him, the crowded church, the whispering people; all that seemed real was the horrible sense of expectation. “Oh, it will be well worth seeing,” remarked a woman, who sat beside him, to her companion. “They always manages things well in this place. The last time I come it was to see Lady Graham’s funeral. Lor’! it was jest beautiful! After all, there aint nothing that comes up to a real good funeral. It’s so movin’ to the feelin’s, aint it?” An icy numbness crept over him, a most appalling feeling of isolation. “This is like dying,” he thought to himself. And then, because the congregation stood up, he too dragged himself to his feet. The march had changed to a hymn. White-robed choristers walked slowly up the middle aisle; their words reached him distinctly: “Still in the pure espousal, Of Christian man and maid.” Then suddenly he caught sight of the face which had more than once been pressed to his, of the eyes which had lured him on so cruelly. It was only for a moment. She passed by with her attendant bride-maids, and black darkness seemed to fall upon him, though he stood there outwardly calm, just like an indifferent spectator. “Did you see her?” exclaimed his neighbor. “My! aint she jest pretty! Satin dress, aint it?” “No, bless your heart! not satin,” replied the other. “’Twas brocade, and a guinea a yard, I shouldn’t wonder.”