You may judge the effect of this. The bride was mildly amazed; the bridegroom was deeply annoyed; the chief justice, the rightful owner of the thunder, was highly offended, and withdrew back in solemn dignity. Meanwhile the ceremony went on to its end. The benediction was pronounced, and congratulations were in order. The marriage feast was a great success, like most other affairs of the kind. The chief justice had not got over the affront given him at the church, but he could not show resentment in his own house, and on the occasion of his young ward's wedding breakfast. As for Old Aaron Rockharrt, he had not the faintest idea that he had committed any breach of propriety. The deuce, you say! Was it not his own eldest son's wedding? Had he not a right to give away the bride? He never even asked himself the question. He took it for granted as a matter of course. Besides, was not he the greatest man present? And should not he do just as he thought fit? So in utter ignorance of any offense given to any one, the Iron King unbent his stiffness for once, and was very genial to every one, especially to the chief justice, who, secretly offended as he was, could not but respond to this friendliness. Among the wedding guests around the board was the beautiful widow, Mrs. Bloomingfield. Mrs. Pendletime had requested Mr. Rockharrt to take her to the table, and he had offered her his arm, placing her at the board, and seated himself beside her. The Iron King looked at the lady with more interest than he would have felt had not Mr. Fabian invented a rumor to the effect that he, Aaron Rockharrt, was addressing her. He looked at the lady on his left critically. Yes; she was very beautiful--very beautiful indeed! And, of course, she would accept him at once if he should offer her his hand! Very beautiful! A tall, finely rounded, radiant blonde, with a suit of warm auburn hair, which she wore in a mass of puffs and coils high on her head; a brilliant, blooming complexion, damask rose cheeks, redder lips, blue eyes, and a pure, fine Roman profile--that means, among the rest, a hooked nose--a very elegant and aristocratic nose indeed, but still a hooked nose. She carried her head high, and her well turned chin a little forward, her lip a little curled. All that meant a high spirit, intolerance of authority, and danger, much danger, to a would-be despot. Oh! very handsome, and very willing to marry the old millionaire. But--no! the Iron King thought not! She would give him too much trouble in the process of subjugation. He would none of her. Cadet Haught, watching this pair from the opposite side of the table, whispered to his sister, who sat on his right: "As I live by bread, Cora, there is the aged monarch flirting with the handsome widow! A thing unparalleled in human history. Or is it dreaming I am?" Cora lifted her languid dark eyes, looked across the table and answered: "She is trying to flirt with him, I rather fancy."