“What a strange speech for a bride-elect, Olly. But, oh, I wanted to ask you,” said Mary, “is it true that Mr. Faradeane is not coming to the wedding? We only heard it from Aunt Amelia last night. She came into our room to look at our dresses.” Olivia was arranging some flowers which Bessie had brought up in her hand when she came to prepare the bath, and the two girls could not see her face or the swift and sudden quiver of her lips. “No, he is not coming. He is engaged to-day,” she said. “How vexing!” exclaimed Mary. “I should have particularly liked him to have seen you. It’s very disagreeable of him not to have put off his engagement; and it’s not like him to be disagreeable, is it, dear----” “No,” said Olivia, in a dry voice. “Perhaps if you asked him----” began Mary, thoughtfully. Olivia turned upon her with a flash in her lovely eyes, and the look of one tortured beyond endurance. “How can you suggest such a thing!” she began; then, at the sight of the dismay on their faces, her voice softened and she forced a laugh. “You silly girls, you think everybody must think your goose is a swan, as you do! What does Mr. Faradeane care about weddings? All men hate them, and very sensibly, too.” “Oh, Olly! And he is such a great friend of yours!” said Mary, meekly. “Is he?” said Olivia, with a laugh that sounded strangely in the girls’ ears. “Well, all the more reason that we should spare him the infliction.” She drew a long breath and turned to the window. “Let us go downstairs into the garden; it seems hot and stifling this morning,” and she pushed the hair from her forehead with an impatient, weary gesture. They went downstairs, the two girls feeling somehow chilled and perplexed, and found the house, as Mary had said, all alive. His lordship the bishop was in the garden discoursing on roses to the squire, who looked grave and preoccupied, for he was thinking that in a few hours his choicest rose would be taken from him. Aunt Amelia, in a morning-robe of brilliant hue and Parisian fashion, was hopping about among the flower-beds, bestowing simpers and smiles upon all and sundry; and the stir and bustle of an unusual excitement seemed to pervade the air. Olivia went up to her father, and kissed him with the tenderness which seemed to have deepened since her sacrifice, and, with his arm round her waist, they were leading the way to breakfast, when a footman in the Bradstone livery rode up, and, touching his hat, delivered a box to Olivia. Mary and Annie uttered an exclamation. “Oh, do open it! It is only tied with string.” “Allow me,” said the bishop, benignly, and, removing the lid, he disclosed three bouquets. One, the largest, was composed of rare, white blossoms, and had a gold bracelet round the stem, with “Olivia” inlaid in pearls. There were similar bracelets for the two girls, who fell to exclaiming, rapturously: