“Ah, ye luve her, Mister George, don’t ye?” the nurse questioned. “I don’t wonder. Everybody what lays eyes on her luves her. She’s that dear----” here the tears got the better of the good woman for an instant and she forgot herself and pulled at the skirt of her new black dress thinking it was an apron, and wishing to wipe her eyes. Then suddenly Gordon found his lips uttering strange words, without his own apparent consent, as if his heart had suddenly taken things in hand and determined to do as it pleased without consulting his judgment. “Yes, I love her,” he was saying, and to his amazement he found that the words were true. This discovery made matters still more complicated. “Then ye’ll promise me something, Mister George, won’t ye?” said the nurse eagerly, her tears having their own way down her rosy anxious face. “Ye’ll promise me never to make her feel bad any more? She’s cried a lot these last three months, an’ nobody knows but me. She could hide it from them all but her old nurse that has loved her so long. But she’s been that sorrowful, enough fer a whole lifetime. Promise that ye’ll do all in yer power to make her happy always.” “I will do all in my power to make her happy,” he said, solemnly, as if he were uttering a vow, and wondered how short-lived that power was to be. CHAPTER V The wedding party had arrived in full force now. Carriages and automobiles were unloading; gay voices and laughter filled the house. The servants disappeared to their places, and the white bride, with only a motioning look toward Gordon, led the way to the place where they were to stand under an arch of roses, lilies and palms, in a room hung from the ceiling with drooping ferns and white carnations on invisible threads of silver wire, until it all seemed like a fairy dream. Gordon had no choice but to follow, as his way was blocked by the incoming guests, and he foresaw that his exit would have to be made from some other door than the front if he were to escape yet awhile. As he stepped into the mystery of the flower-scented room where his lady led the way, he was conscious of a feeling of transition from the world of ordinary things into one of wonder, beauty and mysterious joy; but all the time he knew he was an impostor, who had no right in that silver-threaded bower. Yet there he stood bowing, shaking hands, and smirking behind his false mustache, which threatened every minute to betray him.