The occupants of the high-backed pew grew impatient. It was after ten o’clock, an early hour for a wedding, but the hour Rufus had himself appointed, in his eager impatience to claim his young wife. A cold sweat started to the young bridegroom’s face. He began to think that Lally had thought better of her promise to remarry him, and had decided to give him up for the worthless, weak, irresolute being he knew himself to be. “There’s a hitch somewhere,” said Ryan. Again the baize-covered door swung open, and four persons came slowly up the aisle. It was the bridal party at last. Rufus Black started forward with an irrepressible eagerness, joy and relief. Sir Harold Wynde and Lord Towyn, alike pale and agitated, regarded the approaching party with burning eyes. First of all came the steward of Heather Hills, with a girlish figure clinging to his arm. Behind these two came the steward’s wife in gray silk, and Peters in black silk and crape, but with white ribbons at her throat, and white lace collar and sleeves. Sir Harold and the young earl looked at the three strange figures in a sort of bewilderment. They had expected to see Craven Black and Octavia. Not seeing them, they fixed their glances upon Lally. The young wife had laid aside her mourning for her great-aunt upon this occasion, and wore a dress that Mrs. Wroat had bought for her upon their memorable shopping expedition immediately after Lally’s arrival in London. It was a delicate mauve moire, made with a long train. Over it was worn an upper dress of filmy tulle, arranged in foam-like puffs over all its surface. This too formed a trail. The corsage was of puffs of tulle over the moire, and was made low in the neck and short in the sleeves. The bride wore a tulle vail, which fell over her face in soft folds, and was confined to her head by an aigrette of diamonds. Through the filmy folds of her vail the spectators caught the gleam of diamonds on her arms and neck and bosom. The steward conducted his beautiful young charge to the altar, and bride and bridegroom stood side by side and the minister slowly took his place. Lord Towyn made a movement to dash from his seat, but Sir Harold caught his arm in a stern grip, and compelled him to remain. At the moment of beholding the bride, a mist had swept over the young earl’s vision. His brain had seemed to swim. For the instant he had scarcely doubted, in his excitement, that it was Neva who stood before him; but as his vision cleared, he knew that this young bride was not his betrothed wife. He knew it, although he could not see Lally’s face. He missed the haughty carriage of Neva’s slender figure, the proud poise of her small, noble head, the swaying grace of her movements. This young bride was not so tall as Neva, and had not Neva’s dainty imperial grace. “It’s not Neva!” he whispered excitedly. “That is Rufus Black, sure enough, but the lady is not Neva.” “You can’t see her face,” said Atkins. “I think it is Miss Wynde.”