That was soon to be seen. The great organ was still pealing out Mendelssohn's 'Wedding March' (Mr. Tom had offered to give 10 pounds to the poor-box of the choir if the choristers would play instead the Swedish 'Bring home the bride so fair!')--(forgetting that there were two brides, and that Edith was dark) when the first of the bridal procession came along, Edith and her husband and her bridesmaids. Then came Nan. As she was passing, the fresh-coloured wench timidly stepped forward and offered her the basket of wild roses. Nan stopped; glanced at her, and recognised her; and then, to the wonder of the crowd, they saw the young bride take the basket with her trembling white-gloved fingers, while the other hand was boldly put forward to shake hands with the country lass. Singing Sal was greatly taken aback; but she took Nan's hand for the briefest second, and managed to say something quite incoherent about 'long life and happiness, Miss--I beg your pardon, Miss--Ma'am;' and then the gleaming procession passed on. Nan was very proud of that basket of wild flowers. She would not part with it. She had it placed before her on the table when all the people had assembled and sat down. And perhaps there was one there who, looking alternately at the bright-eyed bride who sat beside him, and at that basket of wild roses, red, and white, and pink, and whitish-red and whitish-pink, may have said to himself that there was no red one there half so red as her lips, and no white one half so white as her clear and shining soul. FINIS. THE PUPIL OF AURELIUS BY WILLIAM BLACK AUTHOR OF 'MACLEOD OF DARE,' 'SUNRISE,' ETC. NEW EDITION LONDON MACMILLAN AND CO. 1882 TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A Blow Faced II. Alone in London III. A Fellow-sufferer IV. A Resolve V. Treasure Trove VI. The End of the Episode CHAPTER I. A BLOW FACED. On a Sunday morning in the early part of November 1878 a stranger arrived at Euston Square, and passed from the gloom of the station into the brighter air of the London streets, there pausing for a second or two to look around him. He was a man of about fifty, short, thin, wiry, square-shouldered; his features firm even to sternness, and hardened by exposure to wind and weather; his hair gray; his beard also gray and clipped short. The harshness of his face, however, was in a measure tempered by the look of his eyes; these were calm and contemplative, perhaps even with a shade of melancholy in them. For the rest, he was well and warmly clad in home-spun cloth; and he carried with him a small hand-bag, which appeared to be his only luggage. He hesitated only for a moment. As he turned off to the left he met two labourers coming along. 'This is the way to London Bridge, is it not?' he asked, slowly, and with a strong northern accent.