Georgia—darkly, resplendently beautiful as ever, moved gracefully through the crowd—full of gracious courtesy, yet flushed, anxious, feverish—half fearing that the bridegroom would appear at this last moment. This fear was aroused by the presence, and the calm, cheerful, self-possessed looks of Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. At length light steps were heard in the hall. The doors of the saloon where thrown open. And all eyes were turned to see the wedding procession enter. But instead of a bridal train, came old Mr. Clifton, leading in his daughter Carolyn. The surprise, the wonder of the company was at first silent and breathless as it was profound. But soon a low whisper arose, and like a low breeze in the leaves, passed from one to another, until the room was in a general buzz. Mr. Clifton led his daughter into the centre of the saloon, and with her still hanging on his arm, turned and faced the company, waiting until they should be silent before he would speak. The father and daughter, as they stood there, presented a fine, imposing appearance. Both were arrayed with the gorgeous splendor that prevailed at that day. The old gentleman had his snow-white hair turned back off his forehead, and carried all down to the nape of his neck, where it was plaited into a queue, and adorned with a large white satin bow, both snowy plait and bow in pleasant relief against the back of the dark crimson velvet coat—his vest and small clothes were of white satin, and his long hose of white silk were fastened to the small clothes below the knee with white satin bows and gold buckles—his slippers were of crimson morocco, with high heels, large bows, and gold buckles. His dress was rather antiquated even for that day. And he stood there waiting for silence with the suave and stately courtesy of the old school gentleman.