I do not mean to weary you with a description of this wedding, nor tell you how the chambers of Heath Hall were crowded with guests that night, nor how old Cumbo fretted and fumed over the preparation of the state dinner the next day; nor how the dancing party came off in the evening; nor how disappointed Sophie was at the still prolonged absence of Rosalia and Gusty; nor how her thoughts occasionally wandered—but I will not even hint at _that_. None of these things will I trouble you with—but come to the Tuesday upon which Mrs. Buncombe was to give her sober, clerical-like evening party to the newly married pair—premising that Rosalia and Gusty had not yet arrived. It was a beautiful evening, and our party from Heath Hall rode over to Grove Cottage by moonlight. Emily’s rooms were well lighted and well filled—and Emily herself, with her quiet gaiety moving about, diffusing cheerfulness around. The bridal party, as usual there, sat at the extremity of the room opposite the entrance. Sophie sat with them; her small soft hands folded lovingly together on the lap of her brown satin dress, and her large eyes bent in reverie upon them. Very far from the scene must her thoughts have wandered, as she did not hear the slight agitation around the front door of the room, or see the entrance of an officer in the full dress uniform of a captain in the United States Navy, who, conducted by Emily, approached, bowing and smiling recognition on either side; she did not even look up until a light finger dropped softly on her hand, and she raised her large eyes to behold Emily, and—