She had planned it all. She would leave a letter for her Uncle and Aunt, saying she was married and had gone and they need not trouble themselves any more about her. Mr. Parsons would tell her where to stay and help her to get a good maid like Moravia had, and then she would go to Paris just as Moravia had done and buy all sorts of lovely clothes; it would take her perhaps a whole month, and then when she was a very grand, grown-up lady, she would write to her dear friend and say now she was ready to accept her invitation to go and stay with her! And what absolute joy to give Moravia such a surprise! to say she was married and free! and had quite as nice things as even that Princess! It was all a simply glorious picture--and but for this kind young man it could never have been hers--but her fate would have been--Samuel Greenbank or Aunt Jemima for four years! It was no wonder she felt grateful to him! and that her handshake was full of cordiality. Michael pulled himself together rather sharply, the blood was now running very fast in his veins. "Wait here," he said to her, "while I go into the chapel to see if Mr. Fergusson and the two witnesses are ready." They were--Johnson and Alexander Armstrong--and the old chaplain who had been Michael's father's tutor and was now an almost doddering old nonentity also stood waiting in his white surplice at the altar rails. The candles were all lit and great bunches of white lilies gave forth a heavy scent. A strange sense of intoxication rose to Michael's brain. When he returned to his sitting-room he found his bride-to-be arranging her hat at the old mirror which had reflected her before. "Won't you take it off?" he suggested--"and see, I have got you some flowers----" and he brought her a great bunch of stephanotis which lay waiting upon a table near. "There is no orange-blossom--because that is for real weddings--but won't you just put this bit of stephanotis in your hair?" and he broke off a few blooms. She was delighted, she loved dressing up, and she fixed it most becomingly with dexterous fingers above her left ear. "You do look sweet," he told her. "Now we must come----" and he gave her his arm. She took it with that grave look of a child acting in a very serious grown-up play. She was perfectly delicious with her blooming youth and freshness and dimples--her violet eyes shining like stars, and her red full lips pouting like appetizing ripe cherries. Michael trembled a little as he felt her small hand upon his arm. They walked to the altar rails and the ceremony began. But, with the first words of the old clergyman's voice, a new and unknown excitement came over Sabine. The night and the gorgeous chapel and the candles and the flowers all affected her deeply, just as the grand feast days used to do at the convent. A sudden realization of the mystery of things overcame her and frightened her, so that her voice was hardly audible as she repeated the clergyman's words.