The betrothed were of the middle class of life, young, both comely; and their behaviour was such as suited the reverence and sanctity of the rite. Vaudemont stood looking on intently, with his arms folded on his breast. Fanny leant behind him, and apart from all, against one of the pews. And still in her hand, while the priest was solemnising Marriage, she held the flowers intended for the Grave. Even to that MORNING--hushed, calm, earliest, with her mysterious and unconjectured heart--her shape brought a thought of NIGHT! When the ceremony was over--when the bride fell on her mother’s breast and wept; and then, when turning thence, her eyes met the bridegroom’s, and the tears were all smiled away--when, in that one rapid interchange of looks, spoke all that holy love can speak to love, and with timid frankness she placed her hand in his to whom she had just vowed her life,--a thrill went through the hearts of those present. Vaudemont sighed heavily. He heard his sigh echoed; but by one that had in its sound no breath of pain; he turned; Fanny had raised her veil; her eyes met his, moistened, but bright, soft, and her cheeks were rosy-red. Vaudemont recoiled before that gaze, and turned from the church. The persons interested retired to the vestry to sign their names in the registry; the crowd dispersed, and Vaudemont and Fanny stood alone in the burial-ground. “Look, Fanny,” said the former, pointing to a tomb that stood far from his mother’s (for those ashes were too hallowed for such a neighbourhood). “Look yonder; it is a new tomb. Fanny, let us approach it. Can you read what is there inscribed?” The inscription was simply this: TO W-- G-- MAN SEES THE DEED GOD THE CIRCUMSTANCE. JUDGE NOT, THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED. “Fanny, this tomb fulfils your pious wish: it is to the memory of him whom you called your father. Whatever was his life here--whatever sentence it hath received, Heaven, at least, will not condemn your piety, if you honour one who was good to you, and place flowers, however idle, even over that grave.” “It is his--my father’s--and you have thought of this for me!” said Fanny, taking his hand, and sobbing. “And I have been thinking that you were not so kind to me as you were!” “Have I not been so kind to you? Nay, forgive me, I am not happy.” “Not?--you said yesterday you had been too happy.” “To remember happiness is not to be happy, Fanny.” “That’s true--and--” Fanny stopped; and, as she bent over the tomb, musing, Vaudemont, willing to leave her undisturbed, and feeling bitterly how little his conscience could vindicate, though it might find palliation for, the dark man who slept not there--retired a few paces. At this time the new-married pair, with their witnesses, the clergyman, &c., came from the vestry, and crossed the path. Fanny, as she turned from the tomb, saw them, and stood still, looking earnestly at the bride.