Godfrey Bergan stood motionless for some minutes. His nephew's persistency had irritated his nerves, if it had not convinced his understanding. Nor was he altogether unimpressed by the solemnity of the young man's parting words. Though he had not condescended to state the fact to Bergan, it was still true that he had exacted what he considered to be very complete and satisfactory evidence, touching the correctness of Doctor Remy's antecedents, before giving him his daughter. Yet it was only after he had recapitulated this evidence to himself, point by point, and had also taken into account the doctor's late brilliant achievements, present high standing, and promising prospects for the future, that he could rid himself of a certain chill weight of responsibility, which seemed somehow to have been flung upon his shoulders by Bergan's last sentence. On entering the cottage, he met Carice in the hall, encircled by her bridesmaids. He was half pleased, half startled to see that the singular listlessness, amounting to a degree of apathy, which had characterized her for some weeks, had given place to a certain tremulous agitation. A round red spot burned on either cheek, where of late the bloom had been both rare and faint; and her eyes were bright and wistful almost to wildness. With a sudden impulse of tenderness, he put his arms round her, and pressed her to his heart. "Father," she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, "am I dreaming or mad? I have heard a voice in the air--Bergan's voice. I was standing by the window, and I heard it distinctly,--no words, only tones,--pleading, pleading, until I thought they would break my heart. Then all at once, they changed to anger,--fierce, bitter anger! And they ended in despair! Father, what could it mean!" "My child," said Godfrey Bergan, after a pause, and there was a perceptible tremor in his voice, "you are very weak and nervous, and these wedding gayeties have been too much for you. Go to rest, and sleep away your fatigues and your fancies together; joy cometh in the morning. The wife of Felix Remy will hear no voices in the air. Good-night." He unclasped his arms, and her bridesmaids, again clustering round her, led her upstairs in triumph. But no sooner had they freed her from her bridal garniture,--the veil's soft mistiness, the robe's heavy, satiny folds, the fragrant orange blossoms, already beginning to fade!--than she put them gently aside. "Bid me good-night, now," she said, with quiet decision. "I am very tired, and I want to be alone for awhile. Rosa will do the rest." There was something in her tone which forbade remonstrance; quickly the door shut out the fresh, young faces, and snowy, fluttering robes. Was she, as she had desired to be, alone?