The day at length came upon which St. Gerald Ashley and his young bride, with their attendants, were expected to arrive at Ashley Hall. Early in the afternoon, the carriage had been sent to the village to meet them; and in the evening all the members of the family were assembled in the drawing-room, to await them. Many of the country gentry, who had been invited to meet the bridal party, had joined the circle in the course of the evening, and the rooms were now quite full. Among the guests present were the Right Honourable W—— R——, then Governor of the State; Judge M——, of the Supreme Court; and a few others, high in state or national authority, whose distinguished names are now historical. But there was no one present so proud or happy as old Colonel Ashley, who walked about gently rubbing his hands, in the simple gleefulness of his country heart and habits. The carriage was behind time; for the reason, it was rumoured, that the bride and her attendants chose to rest an hour or two at the village. At length, however, the welcome wheels were heard to roll up to the door, and the travellers to alight and enter the hall. They retired to change their dresses before entering the drawing-room. In the meantime, among the country neighbours in the saloon, all was half-subdued excitement and expectancy. Among the company was Mark Sutherland, of course. He was not one to shade with his dark brow the brightness of other people’s gaiety. In the social temper of youth, he had sought to enter into the spirit of the time, and had laughed and jested with the young people, or “talked politics” with the elders, as the case demanded. He had heard the slight, subdued bustle in the hall, incident upon the arrival of the bridal party; and the instant absorption of the whole heart of the assembled company, in the interest of the moment, had left him free. He had stood a few moments quite alone and unobserved, when a slight tremulousness of the air near him, a slight disturbance of his own serenity, caused him to look up. Rosalie Vivian was standing near him, with a deprecating, imploring look and gesture. Her face was white as the white crape dress she wore, and her wreath of snow drops quivered with the trembling of her frame. Startled by her appearance, he asked hurriedly—“Dear Rosalie, has anything happened? What is the matter?” “I ought to have told you before! _Some_ of us ought to have told you! _I_ ought to have done so!” she answered, somewhat vaguely and wildly. “Told me _what_, dear Rosalie? What is it?” “Give me the support of your arm into the next room—there is no one there.” “My child, you are not well!” said Mark, looking at her now with painful anxiety, as he drew her hand through his arm. “I am not _good_, you ought to say. I have not been good! I have been a coward! I have not been your friend, Mark! I have been a traitor.” “A traitor! Rosalie, you rave!”