And now, if Mark fancied tears, he might have a plenty of them; for now they fell warm and fast. “What is the matter, Rosalie? Why do you weep now?” asked Mark. But she did not answer. He repeated the question perseveringly. At last, sobbing softly, and smiling, and sighing, and blushing, and averting her face, she said, archly, “Juliet wept at what she was ‘glad of.’” “Are _you_ glad, Rosalie? Tell me, dear Rose. Are _you_ glad that I love you more than all the world that I have chosen you the guiding star of my life?” She did not, could not answer. He repeated this question, also searchingly, perseveringly, only to hear her answer; and he bent his ear, and averted his eyes, and quelled the beating of his heart, to win her reply. At last it came, with her face hidden on his shoulder, and in a tone scarcely above her breath—“I always hoped you would like me at last; I did not think you would so soon, though.” “But are you glad—are you _glad_?” persisted the unreasonable man. “Yes, _glad_,” whispered Rosalie; and in proof of her truth the tears rolled quietly down her face. “And so am I! Glad, happy, hopeful, confident, Rosalie! There will be no more faltering, and fainting, and failing now! You have infused new life into me. That any gossamer girl should have the power to do this! Yet such is the case, Rosalie.” “Am I such a gossamer?” “You are very fragile, Rosalie.” “‘Out of the heart are the issues of life.’” They were interrupted, of course; people always are when they are very blessed. It does not suit “the rest of mankind” to leave them so. This time it was old Colonel Ashley, who really was happy enough in himself to have left Mark and Rosalie alone in their content, if he had known it. He came in with a brisk step, with his slight figure seeming slighter, his grey hair lighter, and his thin, rosy face fiercer than ever, with the effervescence of his joy. He advanced, speaking— “Ah, Mr. Sutherland, you are here! I have been looking for you. What! will you be the last to pay your respects to the bride, and she a relative—though a very distant one, I suppose, of your own? Come, let me present you.” “Does India—does Mrs. Ashley expect me?” inquired Mr. Sutherland. “I imagine not!” replied the old gentleman, raising his eyebrows; “but that does not matter, you know. Come!” Pressing the hand of Rosalie, before relinquishing it, Mark Sutherland arose to accompany Colonel Ashley to the front drawing-room, and to the presence of the bride. They could not at once approach her, on account of the number of persons around her; yet the room was not so thronged with company as to prevent their having a full view of the bride and her attendants.