He saw the soft look that came into Gilbert’s eyes, and felt satisfied with his work. “Yes, there is that,” said Gilbert Standerton softly. “I forgot all my blessings. God bless her!” he said under his breath. As they were leaving the house, Gilbert asked-- “I suppose you have a list of the guests who are to be present?” “Yes,” said the other, “Mrs. Cathcart was most duteous.” “Will Dr. Barclay-Seymour be there?” asked the other carelessly. “Barclay-Seymour--no, he won’t be there,” replied Leslie, “he’s the Leeds Johnnie, isn’t he? He went up from London last night. What’s this talk of your having run away the other night?” “It was an important engagement,” said Gilbert hurriedly, “I had a man to see; I couldn’t very well put him off----” Leslie realised that he had asked an embarrassing question and changed the subject. “By the way,” he said, “I shouldn’t mention this matter of the money to Mrs. Cathcart till after you’ve both settled down.” “I won’t,” said Gilbert grimly. On the way to the church he reviewed all the troubles that were besetting him and faced them squarely. Perhaps it would not be as bad as he thought. He was ever prone to take an exaggerated and a worrying view of troubles. He had anticipated dangers, and time and time again his fears had been groundless. He had lived too long alone. A man ought to be married before he was thirty-two. That was his age. He had become cranky. He found consolation in uncomplimentary analysis till the church was reached. It was a dream, that ceremony: the crowded pews, the organ, the white-robed choir, the rector and his assistants; the coming of Edith, so beautiful, so ethereal in her bridal robes; the responses, the kneeling and the rising--it was all unreal. He had thought that the music would have made a lasting impression on him; he had been at some pains to choose it, and had had several consultations with the organist. But at the end of the service when he began to walk, still in his dream, towards the vestry, he could not recall one single bar. He had a dim recollection of the fact that above the altar was a stained glass window, one tiny pane of which had been removed, evidently on account of a breakage. He was back in the house, sitting at the be-flowered table, listening in some confusion to the speeches and the bursts of laughter which assailed each speaker as he made his point: now he was on his feet, talking easily, without effort, but what words he used, or why people applauded, or why they smiled he could not say. Once in its course he had looked down at the delicate face by his side, and had met those solemn eyes of hers, less fearful to-day, it seemed, than ever he had seen them. He had felt for her hand and had held it, cold and unresponsive, in his.… “An excellent speech,” said Leslie. They were in the drawing-room after the breakfast. “You’re quite an orator.” “Am I?” said Gilbert.