At White Cliffs “all went merry as a marriage bell.” The “Rockbridge” was at length telegraphed at Norfolk. A letter with an invoice was received by Mr. Clifton, who immediately dispatched a special messenger to receive his valuable portion of the cargo. The wedding-day was fixed for that day week, and great preparations were on foot. The gentry of the neighboring counties were invited. The mansion-house was “swept and garnished” from garret to cellar. Frank and Zuleime were daily rehearsing their parts as bridesmaid and groomsman, which Frank declared to be only an apprenticeship to the business of enacting bride and groom. Some city guests from Richmond had arrived by particular invitation, four or five days before the expected wedding. Last of all came the wagon with the boxes from Norfolk. They were opened in the hall—such treasure of splendid attire, and such sets of jewelry! And, above all, such a trousseau for the bride—conspicuous in which was the bridal dress and veil—the bridal dress and train of richest white brocade heavily embroidered with silver, after the gorgeous fashion of that time—the bridal veil of finest lace—the orange flower wreath of pearls and emeralds—the pearl embroidered gloves and slippers—the pearl and silver mounted fan, and all complete in correspondence. And richer still was a ball-dress of blue silver-embroidered brocade, with its elegant coiffure of ostrich feathers, the sight of which Zuleime declared was enough to precipitate _any_ girl into matrimony. Every one was too happy, too busy and too self-important to notice the deathly hue of Georgia’s cheek, far less to detect the fitful glare of the well-guarded eye. Every one but her husband, who, leaving his daughters and their maids to unpack the boxes, followed her into her own chamber, saying, as he fondly laid his hand upon her shoulder— “My darling doesn’t seem to be merry.” She shrank—shuddered from his touch, exclaiming, almost shrilly— “Leave me!” “Leave you, my dear!—my child,—why leave you?” he asked, passing his hand gently around her shoulders. “Leave me, leave me!” she cried, sharply, casting off the arm and springing back—her cheek blanched, her teeth snapping, her eyes sparkling fire, more like a terrified wolf than a woman, “have I not told you never, _never_ to come near me in my dark hour?” “But why should my cherished pet have dark hours?” he persisted, approaching her. “Keep off! keep off! old man, you know not what you do!” “Yes, I’m old—I know I’m old—I wish I wasn’t, for I love you, my darling. Yes, I love you more tenderly and less selfishly than if I was younger. I love you entirely—altogether—your little dark face—your little fiery ways—your little outbursts of temper that no one sees but me, who look upon it with indulgent eyes. Would a young man love you so tenderly, Georgia?”