Upon this last day of her maiden life Beatrix was strangely absent and troubled in manner. She shrank even from Madame Leonard’s gentle sympathy, and while the anxious little woman was busy with the trunk and packing-cases, the owner of all that finery paced the garden walk by the dull gray river, reckless of the biting east wind, wrapped in gloomy thoughts. The swollen waters were rushing under the old stone arch, the moor was darkly purple against a sunless sky. All nature seemed in harmony with the mind of to-morrow’s bride. The packing business kept Madame Leonard and Mary closely occupied all day, so Beatrix was undisturbed. Sir Kenrick had gone to Great Yafford to get the odds and ends wanted to complete his outfit. Mrs. Dulcimer was engaged with her dress for the wedding, which was being made at home, a process which necessitated frequent discussions and consultations with Rebecca and the dressmaker, and which, undertaken from motives of economy, was likely to result in an expensive failure. Cyril was not expected till the evening. He was to arrive in time for the Vicarage tea, and was to occupy Mrs. Dulcimer’s second best spare bedroom. Beatrix had promised to call at the Vicarage some time in the afternoon. It was a visit she would gladly have avoided in her present frame of mind, but she thought if she did not go Mrs. Dulcimer would be likely to come to the Water House in quest of her, and that might prove a heavier infliction. So she put on her bonnet directly after luncheon, and walked across the windy bridge, and up the windy street to the Vicarage. It was between two and three o’clock, a very safe hour at which to pay her visit, since Cyril was not expected until half-past seven. She had seen his letter to Mrs. Dulcimer, in which he named the train that was to bring him. Mrs. Dulcimer was in her bedroom, with Rebecca and the dressmaker. Beatrix went up, at the housemaid’s request, and found these three stitching and talking, as fast as tongues and needles could be driven. The dress had been three days in hand, but just at the last it was found necessary to put on an extra pressure to get it finished. Mrs. Dulcimer was sewing the braid on the skirt, Rebecca was pushing strips of whalebone into the body, which looked as stiff as a strait-waistcoat or a suit of plate-armour; the dressmaker was cording a flounce. The room was strewn with snippings of silk, satin, sarcenet, and lining, as thick as leaves in Vallombrosa. Mrs. Dulcimer looked the image of anxiety. If she had been a beauty of seventeen preparing for her first ball, or a young actress about to make her _début_ in London, she could not have been more deeply concerned. ‘Oh, Beatrix, I am so glad you have come,’ she exclaimed, without stopping her needle. ‘I long to know if you like it.’ ‘It’ was the dress, now in scattered portions. Beatrix looked puzzled.