"Julia, my love," she said, "remember that we wish to show Martin those patterns while it is daylight. To-morrow is Sunday, you know." A little tinge of color crept over Julia's tintless face as she told Pellet he might go. I almost wished that I might be dismissed too; but it was only a vague, wordless wish. We then drew near to the window, from which we could see Sark so clearly, and Julia drew out of her pocket a very large envelope, which was bursting with its contents. They were small scraps of white silk and white satin. I took them mechanically into my hand, and could not help admiring the pure, lustrous, glossy beauty of them. I passed my fingers over them softly. There was something in the sight of them that moved me, as if they were fragments of the shining garments of some vision, which in times gone by, when I was much younger, had now and then floated before my fancy. I did not know any one lovely enough to wear raiment of glistening white like these, unless--unless--. A passing glimpse of the pure white face, and glossy hair, and deep gray eyes of my Sark patient flashed across me. "They are patterns for Julia's wedding-dress," said my mother, in a low, tender voice. CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. TRUE TO BOTH. "For Julia!" I repeated, the treacherous vision fading away instantaneously. "Oh, yes! I understand. They are very beautiful--very beautiful indeed." "Which do you like most?" asked Julia, in a whisper, as she leaned against my shoulder. "I like them all," I said. "There is scarcely any difference among them that I can see." "No difference!" she exclaimed. "That is so like a man! Why, they are as different as can be. Look here, this one is only five shillings a yard, and that is twelve. Isn't that a difference?" "A very great one," I replied. "But do you think you will look well in white, my dear Julia? You never do wear white." "A bride cannot wear any thing but white," she said, angrily. "I declare, Martin, you would not mind if I looked a perfect fright." "But I should mind very much," I urged, putting my arm around her; "for you will be my wife then, Julia." She smiled almost for the first time that afternoon, for her mind had been full of the furniture, and too burdened for happiness. But now she looked happy. "You can be as nice and good as any one, when you like," she said, gently. "I shall always be nice and good when we are married," I answered, with a laugh. "You are not afraid of venturing, are you, Julia?" "Not the least in the world," she said. "I know you, Martin, and I can trust you implicitly." My heart ached at the words, so softly and warmly spoken. But I laughed again--at myself this time, not at her. Why should she not trust me? I would be as true as steel to her. I loved no one better, and I would take care not to love any one. My word, my honor, my troth, were all plighted to her. Only a scoundrel and a fool would be unfaithful to an engagement like ours.