“Then I asked, ‘Had the bride ever spoken of me?’ My voice was steady, but I drew no breath till the answer came. “‘Yes,’ Louisa said, ‘now that I think of it, there has been some conversation about you this very evening. When the dress was laid out, the bride whispered, with tears in her eyes, “_He_ will never see me in my weddingdress! he, our best friend! Oh, Louisa, if it could only be put off a little longer.” “‘But that was all nervousness, you know,’ continued my tormentor, for spite of her kindness she was sure that ‘this getting married is sure to make one want to hold back just at the time, I suppose. She can’t help being happy; who could with a husband handsome and kind like my brother? I tell you, he is splendid—the best fellow in the world. Never fear—they will be happy as the day is long, both so handsome, and good as gold.’ “I grew impatient under all this. Did that girl love to torture me? What did she tell me these things for? Was she determined to crush my heart? or drive me mad? I answered her with sharp impatience. What, I do not remember, and probably did not know at the time. But it must have sounded harshly to the poor girl, for she went into the house weeping; I did not regard it at the time. She had given me a fresh pang, and I had no pity for her. My whole being was absorbed in self-compassion; there was not a creature in the world to whom I could have spoken except you, George, and you were away. “When Louisa left me, I went up to my chamber; it was a back-room overlooking the gardens. I sat by the window all night, for my grief and the solitude were complete. I heard the carriages disappear, while the hum of voices grew faint upon the night air. I saw the blaze of lights go out, and at last the beating of my own heart was the loudest sound I heard. “The daylight flashed around me where I had sat so many dreary hours, but still I remained motionless, letting the morning deepen toward the noon. It seemed to me that I should never care to stir again. I was aroused as if from a dull dream, by the noise of a carriage driven down the opposite street. It was Oakley, with his bride, on their way to the European steamer. It seemed as if the horses that bore her away were tramping my heart under their hoofs; but when the sound died in the distance, my breath came more freely. It was over, and I knew the worst. When that knowledge comes to any brave soul, fate has lost half its power to torture!” “I know it,” answered the brother, who, shrouding his face with one hand, while his elbow rested on the table, had listened attentively. “But fate sometimes leaves a long, dull waste of lurid hopes to mourn over, after the worst is known.” CHAPTER LVI. THE BROTHERS TALK OVER THEIR FATHER’S DEATH.