“All at once, I heard a footstep on the gravel-walk; and, through my tears, I saw a figure coming toward me, glistening white and pure through the moonshine. My heart leaped; my breath stopped. Could it be my lost love coming to say farewell? “Hoping this, and faint with expectation, I waited for that white figure to draw nearer. It came swiftly; I saw the face, and my heart fell back; the breath left my lips in a moan. It was Louisa Oakley. She saw me in the arbor, and came forward with a glad look upon her face. I was in the shadow, and she could not detect the sorrow on mine. The girl was very happy and full of pleasant excitement. “‘I felt sure of finding you here,’ she said, ‘and came down to say how sorry I am that you are not one of the groomsmen. With you, I could stand up without trembling. If you had only known my brother, it could have been managed, and then the wedding would be splendid.’ “I replied with such composure as I could command, but she detected the sadness in my voice, and mistook it for disappointment regarding an invitation to the wedding. “‘It couldn’t be helped,’ she said; ‘Mrs. Judson never dreamed how intimate we have all been; besides, I think she was a little prejudiced against your mother.’ “Louisa was very gentle and full of affectionate playfulness, but you can imagine how she wounded me by this mention of my mother. I felt keenly enough that, but for her, I might have stood where young Oakley was then. Oh, George, it was hard to bear! “The kind girl, feeling that I continued sad, insisted on standing out in the moonlight, that I could admire her dress, which fell about her in soft fleeciness, like drifts of newly fallen snowflakes. She was not very beautiful, but the whiteness and tender radiance of the moon, falling around her as she stood crowned with roses, made a lovely picture of which she was shyly proud. It was that I might see her in her pretty dress that she had come down to me, I think. “These things may seem trivial, George, but the details of a painful event fix themselves terribly on the memory. There was not a word spoken that night, or a shadow upon the windows of that house, which was not imprinted on my soul forever. “I called Louisa from her conspicuous position in the moonlight—for her white garments seemed like grave-clothes to me—and with a quietness that seemed marvellous to me, inquired if the bride seemed happy. It was a desperate question, but my heart struggled yet for some hope, that, even at the bridal hour, she would think of me with regret. “Louisa answered innocently enough that she had never seen a happy bride in her life. The persons to be married were always nervous and frightened. It was only the bridesmaids that really enjoyed themselves. As for her brother, he was happy as a king; but the bride said so little and moved about so quietly that there was no judging about her.