The luncheon, however, was duly appreciated by the mollified major, Mrs. Kershaw herself, and, we regret to add, the bridegroom, who was in radiant spirits. There was something contagious in his mood--something inspiriting in the joy that rioted in his bright brown eyes--even Mrs. Kershaw lit up under his influence, and for awhile forgot the suspicious character of the human race. But the repast was soon over. Wilton was anxious to catch the tidal train, and Ella went obediently to don her bonnet and travelling-gear. "Look at this, Moncrief," said Wilton, when they were alone, holding out a miniature in a slightly-faded morocco case; "it is a picture of Ella's father." Moncrief scrutinized it with much interest. An exquisitely painted portrait, it represented a dreamy, noble face, dark as a Spaniard, with black-blue eyes, closely resembling his daughter's, a delicately-cut, refined mouth, unshaded by moustache, and a trifle too soft for a man; the turn of the head, the whole bearing more than conventionally aristocratic, picturesquely grand. "There is no question about it, Wilton, this man looks every inch a gentleman. Have you any idea who the mother was?" "Not the most remote. I do not think Ella has an idea herself; she says she had a charming picture of her mother, but it disappeared soon after they came to London, and she has never been able to find it. She has a box full of letters and papers up stairs, and, when we return, I shall look through them and try to trace her father's history, just to satisfy my sister and yourself. Ella will always be the same to me, ancestry or no ancestry." "By-the-way, where are you going?" said the major. "Oh! to Normandy--to a little out-of-the-way place within a few miles from A----, called Vigères. There is very good salmon-fishing in the neighborhood, and we shall be quiet." "When shall you be back?" "I cannot tell; I suppose I must not take more than six weeks' holiday." "Well, I would not write to old St. George till you come back." "I am not sure about that; I--" "Here is Miss--I mean Mrs. Wilton," interrupted Moncrief. With sweet, grave simplicity, Ella offered a parting kiss to her husband's friend. Mrs. Kershaw stepped jauntily to open the door. A hearty hand-pressure from Moncrief, whose rugged countenance was sorrowfully sympathetic, and the newly-wedded pair were away. "Won't you step in, sir, and take another glass of wine?" said Mrs. Kershaw, with startling hospitality, to the uneasy major, who felt in comparative captivity, and by no means equal to the occasion. "No; I am much obliged to you," said the major, edging toward the door. "A little bit of pigeon-pie, or a mouthful of cheese, or a drop of stout to wind up with," persisted Mrs. Kershaw. "You may say what you like, there's nothing picks you up like a drop of stout." "No, I thank you; nothing more." "I hope everything was to the colonel's satisfaction?" resumed Mrs. Kershaw, with an angular smile.