Human feelings, indeed, afford but a quivering, changeful gleam, by which to view the edifice of life; as pleasantly deceptive, as unreal in their lights and shadows as moonbeams on a picturesque ruin; but there is a Light which does not mislead, which brings out each object in its true perspective, and decides the value of all earthly possessions; and it was by this pure Light that Hilary was now gazing on life; and so her heart failed not in that trying hour. Gwyneth never forgot her sad betrothal; it was good for her to remember it; and afterward, in gayer hours, when surrounded by luxuries, and allured by the soul-engrossing littleness of rank and wealth, the recollection of the trembling fingers, faint accents, and calm, holy eyes, of her dying brother-in-law, hovered round her heart, and his memory, like her guardian angel, still came between her and temptations to cold selfishness and pride. His approval spoken, and his blessing given, Captain Hepburn begged to be left alone with Hilary; so Lord Dunsmore led his young betrothed to the next room, and then there followed on his part, such an out-pouring of long-cherished feelings, suppressed and concealed from regard to his brother, as Gwyneth had little expected to hear; and which she now listened to in wonder, as she thought of the girlish infatuation which had made her blind to his merits, and had just missed making a wreck of her happiness for life. They talked till twilight came down upon them, and then remembering the world beyond themselves, they wondered to hear no sound or movement in the next room; but fearing to intrude, they waited anxiously, till Maurice returning from a walk, ventured to enter that quiet chamber. All there was still, profoundly still; for Hilary, with her hand clasping the cold fingers of a stiffened corpse, was lying in a death-like swoon beside her husband’s couch. * * * * * Three months passed away. It was autumn again, a beautiful October morning, and the yellow sunshine which fell on the green-sward between the boles of the old trees, like bars of gold, streamed also gladly into the pretty chamber where Hilary, in her widow’s dress, was attiring Gwyneth for her bridal. It was Mrs. Hepburn’s earnest wish that it should not longer be delayed; it had been her husband’s last act to join their hands, and till the union was accomplished, she felt his will was but half fulfilled. “Let it be then,” she said, “that autumn;” and so it was to be; they could not have resisted her calm, sweet request, even had she demanded a sacrifice of them; and when she only bade them be happy, who could say no?