“He loved her, though—I am sure he loved her!” he resumed, his eyes falling upon that still open letter. “This shows it in almost every line; and his face to-day, as I caught a glimpse of it through the window, as he bent over that trunk, looked as if he had just buried the dearest object of his life. It must have been hard to look at all her pretty fixings and remember that one short, happy year; for they were very happy, according to Bob Whittaker’s story. That is the reason he keeps this house, and all in it, so sacred. Why couldn’t he have married her, like a man? Money! money! I believe it is only a curse to half the people in the world.” He arose, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket; then going to the old mill, he unfastened his horse, mounted, and rode back to Vue de l’Eau, looking stern, and grave, and unhappy. CHAPTER XXXVI. “HE IS NOT NAMELESS.” October and November passed without any event of special interest occurring in connection with any of our characters. In Brooklyn, in the home of August Huntress, these were very busy days, but every member of the household was full of hope and happiness. Gladys and Geoffrey saw but comparatively little of each other, except during the evening, for Geoffrey went early to the office in New York every morning, and did not return until dinner time at six; but both were looking forward to the thirtieth of December, the date set for their union with all the fond anticipations of young and loving hearts. Their engagement was formally announced immediately after it was decided that Geoffrey was to go abroad, and cards for the wedding were issued by the first of December. Congratulations poured in upon the young couple from all quarters, and, the winter being an exceptionally gay one, invitations abroad were numerous and pressing, their friends urging their presence, since they were to lose their society entirely during their long absence in Europe. Everet Mapleson, while reading the fashionable items in a New York paper one morning, came across the announcement of this approaching marriage. He bounded from his chair with a muttered imprecation. “So soon!” he said, with a frowning brow. “They are in a great hurry, it seems to me; but perhaps the trip abroad explains it. Let me see—they are to be married on the thirtieth,” he continued, referring to the paper again, “and will sail the next day on the Scythia. The Scythia? That is not a New York steamer—that sails from Boston; so, of course, they will have to leave New York immediately after their marriage to be in season for it.” He paced up and down the room, with bent head and sullen, thoughtful brow. All at once he gave a violent start. “I wonder,” he muttered, stopping short in his pacing; “I wonder if it would be possible to manage it?”