“Father!” said Carolyn, seizing his hand, and detaining him, while she raised her head and looked and spoke in a manner that reminded him more strongly than ever of her arrogant mother, “Father, _no_, you will not go! No, no, father, if you have any love for _me_, any respect for the memory of my dead mother, _do not_ subject her daughter and yours to such a mortification! No, father, if he _never_ comes, never go after him!” “You’re a fool, girl!” cried the old man, breaking away from her, “a palpable fool!—You were a fool for quarreling with him and sending him away, and now you are a greater fool for persisting in the quarrel. ‘Mortification,’ indeed! Who’ll be the most mortified this evening, I wonder, ‘if he never comes?’ What the deuce are we to say to the people who will come here this evening to see you married? Tell me that?” Before she could say another word, a large family carriage rolled down the road, and turned and entered the lawn. Carolyn sank back in her seat, nearly swooning with the swift hope and fear that strove almost to agony as she gazed. It looked so like Mrs. Clifton’s carriage. It was not, however. It contained the very earliest of the wedding guests, who, coming from a distance of thirty miles, had set out early enough to arrive in time to secure a whole afternoon’s rest and refreshment before dressing for the evening. This was customary with those coming from afar. Old Mr. Clifton went down the steps, to receive his guests. Carolyn arose and withdrew into the house, fortunately before she had been recognized by the visitors; for it would have been shockingly out of all etiquette for a bride to be visible on her wedding-day before the wedding-hour. When Mr. Clifton had ushered his guests into the drawing-room, he returned to the piazza to give some directions concerning the stabling of the horses, for where so many animals were expected to be provided for, it required some extra thought and care in their bestowal. While still giving his orders, he saw his younger daughter riding slowly up to the house. Pleased to see her return in safety, in spite of his evil forebodings of the morning, and thinking besides that she could give him some news of the laggard bridegroom, he hastened to meet her and lift her from the saddle, with a joyous— “Well, my darling! well, my damask rose-bud! Back in time, according to promise, eh?” But at the sight of her father, the girl’s face flushed and paled so swiftly, her bosom rose and fell so rapidly, her whole frame was so agitated, her manner so confused, that the old man was seized with alarm and exclaimed, hurriedly— “In the name of Heaven, my dearest child, what is the matter?” But Zuleime, incapable of reply, looked as if she would sink into the ground. Mr. Clifton’s first definite thought was that some accident or catastrophe had befallen the bridegroom. “Good Heaven, Zuleime, what has happened? Where is Archer Clifton? Speak—has he come to any harm?”