MRS. KEENE’S apartment on the Place de la Madeleine was a scene of joyful commotion and confusion. The small breakfast which followed the wedding was an informal affair; and though it was supposed that only the nearest personal friends were present, the rooms were cheerfully crowded, and the uniforms made a show and glitter. The charming girls who were permitted to be their sister’s bridesmaids were the object of much notice and attention; and when the company had risen from the table, the eldest sister, who was so much the least pretty and vivacious, was scarcely missed from the room. A few people inquired for the bride’s brother, who had also disappeared; but as he was a stranger to every one, the fact of his absence was little noticed. Martha, when she went to look for Harold, found him in his own room, smoking. “I knew it was you,” he said, as she came in, closing the door behind her. “I thought you would come to look me up; but why did you? I’m poor company for anybody to-day. Well,” he added, with a short, deep breath, “thank the Lord, that’s over! When you get married, Martha, I want you to elope. I’ve no business at a wedding. I feel that I have cast an evil eye on Alice and Victor.” “Oh, Harold, I was thinking of you more than of them all the time,” said Martha, earnestly. “It did seem absolute cruelty to have required it of you. How _could_ mama!” Concentrated as her tone and manner were, she was doubtful whether they even penetrated the consciousness of her companion, who, with his chair tipped backward, his frock-coat thrown open, with a ruthless disregard of the smart gardenia which ornamented its lapel, and his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, was smoking vigorously, and looking away from her out of the window. Martha had come here in the ardent hope of giving comfort, and she felt a little hurt. She smothered the feeling back into her heart, however, as she said: “I knew it was anguish to you, standing there and going through that ceremony.” He turned, and looked at her. “Well, rather!” he said, with a short laugh, still keeping the cigar in his mouth, and talking with his teeth clenched upon it. Then he turned his face toward the window again; but his glance was so vague that Martha felt that he saw some picture in his mind, rather than the scene below. “The service was the same,” he said, clasping his hands behind his head, and narrowing his eyes as if to get the perspective. “The music was the same--and those roses! And that was not all. Vivid as she always is to me in every other respect, I have not always been able to hold on to her voice; but to-day I heard it perfectly, saying, ‘I, Sophia, take thee, Harold,’ and all the rest.” He got up suddenly, threw his cigar into the grate, and walked across the room. “Oh, poor Harold!” Martha said, her voice thick with tears.