She moved a step forward, standing almost in the centre of the room, with Mrs. Farnham and her lawyer friend on the left, and the clergyman who stood near the newly married pair on her right. All had a full view of her face. Her features seemed harder than ever--the expression on them was stern as granite. Her eyes burned with a settled purpose, and her whole person was imposing. For a moment, when all eyes were bent upon her she seemed to falter; you could see by the choking in her throat and a spasmodic gripe of her fingers, that the struggle for her first words was agony. But she did speak, and her voice was so hoarse that it struck those around her with amazement; nay, a look of awe stole over the faces turned so earnestly towards her. "Twenty-one years ago last night, I committed a great wrong in the face of God and the law," she said; "that woman," here she lifted her long, boney finger and pointed it towards Mrs. Farnham, "that woman had wronged me and the being I loved better than myself, and this filled me with a heathenish thirst for vengeance upon her." "Me! me! why, did you ever--I never wronged a creature in my whole life--you know how bland and gentle I always am!" whimpered that lady. "Be still!" interposed aunt Hannah in the same deep voice. "The husband of that woman was betrothed to me in my youth." "I'll never believe that, never--never!" cried Mrs. Farnham, flushing up angrily. "Peace, I say, and do not interrupt me again. My parents died leaving Anna, a little girl pretty as an angel, for Nathan and I to take care of; she was the dearest, loveliest little thing." "I'll take my Bible oath of that," cried Salina, reddening suddenly around the eyes, "I never set eyes on anything half so purty in my life." "I gave up all for this child, and so did Nathan; we both agreed to live single for her sake and be parents to her." "More fools you," muttered Salina, "as if uncle Nat's wife couldn't and wouldn't have taken care of a dozen such children, that is, if he'd only had sense enough to choose a smart--but what's the use, it's all over now." This was said in a muttered undertone, and aunt Hannah went on without heeding it. "It was a hard struggle, for I was young then, and loved the man I expected to spend my life with--Nathan too"-- "No matter about me, Hannah, don't mention anything I did; it was hard at the time, but one gets used to almost everything," cried the old man, wiping the tears from his eyes with a cotton handkerchief that Salina handed to him, her own eyes flushing redder and redder from sympathy. "I need not speak of him," commenced aunt Hannah, with one look at her brother's face. "He did his duty; if I had done mine as well, this hour of shame would not have brought me where I am. "The child grew up into a beautiful girl--so beautiful and with such sweet ways, that it did one good only to look at her, but she was willful too, and loved play; wild as a kitten she was, but as harmless too.