Another time Dane might have discussed the subject; but not to- night. He was silent. And as people catch the hidden influences abroad in the air, the others grew silent too, not knowing why, thinking it was the wind which drew their attention. Dr. Arthur, leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes on the floor, in an attitude of keen listening, had plainly forgotten his gloves; and the fire snapped softly, and the red coals fell, and still nobody spoke. Until, when some little time had passed by, there came a sound of steps in the hall,—steps slow and rather heavy; and the door opened softly, and a vision came in. Not hers the steps they had heard; so noiselessly she came in, so vision-like she looked, so lovely, so girlish in her loveliness, that a caught breath, a half exclamation, greeted her on all hands. The glittering dress was all changed. Not for the white clouds in which her mother might have arrayed her, nor for anything that should make her conspicuous, or could be so. More for seclusion than for show, Wych Hazel had chosen her bridal dress. Dark,—so dark that the depths of folds might have been black, and only the light-touched edges threw off a sea-green _reflet;_ with no ornaments but the châtelaine at her side, with no adornment but her own silky hair in its own wayward arrangement. To all this there was just one addition. Hazel had taken the lace veil,—exquisite in pattern, cobweb-like in texture,— and laid it across her head like a Spanish mantilla, from whence it came down about her on all sides to the floor, leaving only the face and the front of the dress clear. One little ungloved hand held the lace lightly together; for gloves that there was nobody to take off, Hazel could not put on. Mrs. Bywank and Reo followed close behind her, behind them old Gyda. But there is something in a crisis which stills some natures; and while the faces of the faithful old retainers, weatherbeaten with life's alternating wind and sun, worked and stirred with emotion, the girl herself was quiet and composed, with almost the grave childish calm of her own little picture. Her step was a little quick, but even the colour did not stir, until when after the first three steps into the room there came a minute's hesitation, as if she did not quite know where to go, now she was there. If any others of the household followed—as probably they did—those who looked saw only the three; and perhaps the glitter of Gyda's embroidery just behind.