He looked around him with a sickly smile, and with the restless suspicion more marked than ever in his glance, and, just raising his hat, went into the church. The clergyman and the clerk were in the vestry, and the latter greeted him with the stereotyped remarks: “The bridegroom first! Quite right, Mr. Bradstone. Ah! here they are! The bells are just starting. What a lovely morning! ‘Happy is the bride,’ etc.,” and he laughed. Bartley Bradstone went to the door, stood a moment till the first carriage came dashing up, then returned to the vestry and paced up and down. Other carriages followed, the little room began to fill, and guests were taking their places in the pews near the altar. Bartley Bradstone shook hands with one and another, and a faint flush began to rise on his face; but it still looked haggard and anxious, and several times the remark which the man in the crowd had made was echoed by the young fellows who envied him. Presently a cheer, loud and hearty, burst from the crowd outside, and the bishop, with a bland smile, said: “The bride.” A moment afterward, amidst still more cheering and cries of “God bless you, Miss Olivia!” the squire entered, with the bride on his arm. There was an instantaneous movement toward them, and amidst the excited whispering they entered the vestry. She carried in her hand the bouquet he had sent; but the snow-like flowers were not whiter than her face, and she clung to her father’s arm with a clasp which seemed as if it could never be loosened. With downcast eyes she stood for a moment, scarcely seeming to breathe, more like a lovely statue than a living woman; then Bartley Bradstone, who had been standing in the center of a group, came toward her. “Have you got what I sent you?” he said in a low voice. She raised her eyes and looked at him as if she scarcely heard him. “Do you mean this?” she said, raising the bouquet. “Yes, and inside it,” he said. She looked at him as if she did not yet understand, and, taking the flowers from her hand, he parted them and showed her an envelope lying half hidden in their midst. “You did not examine it very closely,” he whispered, with an attempt at a smile. “Open it; come this way.” Slowly, reluctantly, she drew her arm from her father’s and followed him. Those near delicately drew back and moved away, leaving the two alone. She opened the envelope and looked at the paper it had inclosed. It was a formal acknowledgment of fifty thousand pounds having been paid into the Wainford Bank in her name. For a second, a second only, the deep pallor of her face changed, and her lips quivered, and with a look--not at him, but at her father--she thrust the paper in the bosom of her dress. “Are you satisfied?” he whispered, bending over her as if to look at the bouquet. Her lips opened, but no sound came; and, with the same vacant expression in the lovely eyes, she got away from him to the protection of her father’s arm again.