Poor Margaret! Already her quick-sightedness, unblinded by love, showed her Mr. Drayton as he was--vain, and led by his vanity alone. He was good-humoured in all else and inclined to be kind, but if he was not upon good terms with himself, if he was not flattered, his good-humour vanished and he became rude and sulky. And Margaret, among other things, dreaded his rudeness, and, but for that prostrate figure so indescribably dear to her, would have died rather than have faced life with him. To her it was a moral death, and not the least painful part of the sacrifice was, that, while she could see nothing else, she fell in her own esteem. It was a forlorn little ceremony altogether. Mrs. Dorriman, who clung faithfully to the poor child, went with her to Glasgow, where Mr. Drayton had made all the necessary arrangements. Nothing less like a bride ever went to the altar. All the time the ceremony went on Margaret heard nothing, thought of nothing, but was uttering fervent prayers for forgiveness and help. There was a hurried farewell. Mrs. Dorriman saw them into the train--they were going away for a little time. As she still stood there Margaret turned her tearful eyes towards the man who was now her husband. "When shall we return? I want to send a message to my sister." For all answer he repeated to her the words she had just uttered, "'Forsaking all others, cleaving only to him,'" and, as he spoke, the train started. CHAPTER IV. Grace lay back after parting from Margaret with a sense of having at length got her foot upon sure ground; but there was not that entire sense of satisfaction which she had expected. The remembrance of Margaret's white face and the quivering lips was not pleasant. It was quite Margaret's way to take high ground about everything--she saw everything in an exaggerated way; that came of having such a poetical temperament, which was not always a desirable thing. In spite of these sensible reflections there was a strong sense of discomfort, and, though Grace tried to shake it off and read and talk to the nurse, that did not help her. The nurse dwelt upon the beautiful bride her sister would be; never for a moment doubting orange-blossom, white satin, and all complete. Mrs. Dorriman came home late and went into Grace's room with signs of tears, due partly to the sadness of that wedding and partly to fatigue. Grace's light questions jarred upon her. She felt that it had been a terrible sacrifice, and she wished that the sister who understood it so little could be made to appreciate it. "Poor darling Margaret!" said Grace, "did she send me no message?" "She had no time. I heard her ask him when they should be home--she wished to let you know. I heard his answer. _Forsaking all others, cleaving only to him._ My mind misgives me, Grace; that poor child will not have all she hopes and expects from him." "You must not be so doleful, Mrs. Dorriman, it is so very bad for me," said Grace, peevishly.