Her ladyship was dressed in a pink moire, with sweeping court train of pink velvet. She had worn white at her first marriage, pearl color at her second; and for the third, and most satisfactorily to her, had put on the color of love. A diadem set with flashing diamonds starred her black, fashionably dishevelled hair, above her low forehead. Her arms and neck were bare, and glittered with gems. Her face was flushed with triumph; her black eyes shone with a perfect self-content. The bridal pair took their places before the altar, and the clergyman and his assistants began their office. The usual questions were asked and answered; the usual appeal made to any one who knew “any just cause or impediment why these two should not be united,” but which, of course, received no response; and her third marriage ring was slipped upon Lady Wynde’s finger, and for the third time she was a wife. If any regret mingled with her present happiness, it was that by her third marriage she lost the title her second alliance had conferred upon her. But as there was a prospect that Craven Black would inherit a title some day, and that she would then be a peeress, she easily contented herself with her present untitled condition. After the ceremony, the newly married pair proceeded to the vestry and signed the marriage register. Friends and curious acquaintances thronged in upon them with congratulations, and soon after, when the church bell began peeling merrily, the bride and groom reentered their carriage, and drove home to Hawkhurst. Neva and Rufus Black followed in the second carriage. The guests invited to the wedding breakfast entered their carriages, and followed in the wake of the bridal pair. The villagers and tenants, in a great, straggling crowd, proceeded on foot along the dusty road, to take their part in the out-door festivities. A magnificent green arch had been erected over the great gates, with the monogram of the bride and groom curiously intertwisted, and lettered in red roses upon the green ground. Three similar arches intersected at regular distances the long avenue. The marble terrace was bordered with orange trees, oleanders, lemon-trees, and tropical shrubs, all in wooden tubs, and the front porch was a very bower of myrtles and red roses. “It is all in singularly bad taste,” was Sir John Freise’s exclamation, as he surveyed the scene. “It’s very fine, girls, and would do very well if it was all for Neva’s marriage, but it is worse than tomfoolery to invite Sir Harold Wynde’s tenantry and friends to rejoice at the wedding of Sir Harold’s widow to a man not worthy to tie his shoes. I must repeat that it is in singularly bad taste. The tenantry are not Lady Wynde’s; the house is not Lady Wynde’s. What can be done to give distinction to the marriage-day of the heiress, if all this display is made for Lady Wynde?”