"Of course she must come to Newport, Laura," says Mrs. Vandervoort. "She is trained to enjoy just such society. And next winter she will be the social success of the city. I delight in American belles," says this patriotic woman, who has been at nearly every court in Europe, and can still appreciate her own countrywomen, "but they do need judicious foreign training." The wedding morning dawns auspiciously. The house is sweet with flowers. Gertrude is roused from her apathy, and looks an interesting invalid. Marcia is airy and childish, Madame Lepelletier simply magnificent, and the bride extremely handsome in dead white silk and tulle, with clusters of natural rosebuds. Floyd gives the bride away, and, much moved, breathes a prayer for her happiness. The vows are said; they come home to an elegant wedding breakfast, managed by colored waiters who know their business perfectly. There are some friendly, informal neighborhood calls, and all is very gay and bright. Eugene, Marcia, and the Brades are going up the river with them; Mr. and Mrs. Delancy will travel leisurely through Canada and come down to Newport to be Mrs. Vandervoort's guests for the remainder of the summer. Madame Lepelletier has some business to settle, and will rejoin them as soon as possible. There is very great confusion afterwards, but by dusk matters get pretty well settled in their olden channel. Madame declares it an extremely pretty wedding, and praises Laura's self-command, which, after all, was largely compounded of perfect satisfaction. And now there will be a lull, and it shall go hard indeed if Madame Lepelletier cannot use some charm to draw this indifferent man towards her. She is beginning to hate the child who always rivals her; but certainly she can circumvent the little thing when she has all her time to herself and can use her eyes for her own advantage. It seems odd to have such a small, quiet breakfast-table, to see his mother in her black gown again, and Gertrude's morning dress tied with black ribbons. They all talk rather languidly, when an interruption occurs. Briggs brings in a note for Mr. Grandon. "An old woman brought it," he announces, "and she is waiting outside for an answer. She would not come in." Floyd remarks that it is unsealed. Its contents are brief, but written in a fine, irregular hand. "_Will Mr. Grandon come at once to Mr. St. Vincent, who is ill in bed?_" * * * * * Grandon rises suddenly and goes out. On the wide step of the porch sits the old housekeeper, but she glances up with dark, bright eyes. "You will come?" she begins, eagerly. "Yes. When did Mr. St. Vincent return?" "Last night. He is very ill." Her wrinkled lips quiver and she picks nervously at her shawl. "They came to New York, but the journey was too much. He has been there two days with no one but the child, my poor ma'm'selle."