It was all over now. She stood in the hallway of the splendid home that had sheltered her childhood, waiting for the carriage that would bear her away on her honey-moon trip. She was leaving that dear home forever; a quick tear sprang to her eyes as the servants crowded around her with their humble, sorrowful adieux. Lucy was to go with her, but the others, many of whom had been valued domestics in the house for years, she might never see again. They all loved her, and their farewells and good wishes were the most fervent and heart-felt she had ever received. Colonel Carlyle, though a little impatient, was pleased at these humble manifestations and distributed gratuities among them with a liberal hand. He wondered a little at the tears that crowded into the blue eyes of his girl-wife. He did not know that she was thinking of the dear uncle with whom she had spent so many hours beneath this roof. Ah, those happy days! How far they lay behind her now in the green land of memory! "Come, dearest," he said, drawing her small hand through his arm and leading her away, "you must not dim those bright eyes with tears." He led her down the steps, placed her in the carriage that was gay with wedding favors, and Mrs. Arnold and Felise airily kissed the tips of their fingers to them. Janet threw an old slipper after the carriage for good luck, and then Bonnibel was whirled away to the new life that lay before her. "I came very near being the bride in that carriage myself," said Felise, turning away from the drawing-room window. "But 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'" The tone was light, almost laughing; but Mrs. Arnold, turning to look at her, read a different story in her eyes. The slighted beauty looked very fair and handsome to-day. She had been the first bridesmaid, and her dress rivaled that of the bride itself for richness and elegance. It was a creamy satin, heavily embroidered with pearl beads and draped with rich lace, caught up here and there with deep-hearted yellow roses. Her glossy black hair was adorned with the same flowers, and a necklace of sparkling topaz made a circlet of pale flame around her white throat. A dainty little basket of yellow roses had hung upon her arm, but she had thrown it down now and stood trampling the senseless flowers with fury in her eyes. "My dear!" exclaimed the mother, in some trepidation. "Don't 'my dear' me," Felise answered, furiously. "I am not in a mood to be cajoled." She began to pace the floor impatiently, her rich dress rustling over the floor, her white hands busy tearing the roses from about her and throwing them down as if she hated the beautiful things whose crushed petals sent out a rich perfume as if in faint protest against her cruelty. There was a wild glare akin to that of madness in her dark eyes.