This is Tilly's wedding day. How beautiful the morning is for her! The whole sky is one exquisite blue--no sign of any storm-plan far or near. The July air blows as cool as early May. I sit at my window writing and it flows over me in soft waves, the fragrances of the green park below my window enter my room and encircle me like living human tendernesses. At this moment, I suppose, Tilly is dressing for her wedding, and I--God knows why--am thinking of old-time Kentucky gardens in one of which she played as a child. Tilly, a little girl romping in her mother's garden--Tilly before she was old enough to know anything of the world--anything of love--now, as she dresses for her wedding--I cannot shut out that vision of early purity. Yesterday a note came from her. I had had no word since the day I openly ridiculed the man she is to marry. But yesterday she sent me this message: "Come to-night and say good-bye." She was not in her rooms to greet me. I waited. Moments passed, long moments of intense expectancy. She did not enter. I fixed my eyes on her door. Once I saw it pushed open a little way, then closed. Again it was opened and again it was held as though for lack of will or through quickly changing impulses. Then it was opened and she entered and came toward me, not looking at me, but with her face turned aside. She advanced a few paces and with some swift, imperious rebellion, she turned and passed out of the room and then came quickly back. She had caught up her bridal veil. She held the wreath in her hand and as she approached me, I know not with what sudden emotion she threw a corner of the veil over her head and face and shoulders. And she stood before me with I know not what struggle tearing her heart. Almost in a whisper she said: "Lift my veil." I lifted her veil and laid it back over her forehead. She closed her eyes as tears welled out of them. "Kiss me," she said. I would have taken her in my arms as mine at that moment for all time, but she stepped back and turned away, fading from me rather than walking, with her veil pressed like a handkerchief to her eyes. The door closed on her. I waited. She did not come again. Now she is dressing for the marriage ceremony. A friend gives her a house wedding. The company of guests will be restricted, everything will be exquisite, there will be youth and beauty and distinction. There will be no love. She marries as one who steps through a beautiful arch further along one's path. Whither that path leads, I do not know; from what may lie at the end of it I turn away and shudder.