"It doesn't matter about going to the church to-day," she said in a trembling voice, in answer to a question from a friend, "if I only have George here safe and well. I do wish he would come!" she said, her lip quivering. "Something must have happened to him." "No, no, little woman, you mustn't get that idea into your head," her father said hastily. "His friends in that case would have----" At last! There was a ringing of the door-bell, a rush of feet to the hall, and twenty voices exclaimed: "Here they are!" The plural pronoun, however, was not justified by the event, for, on opening the door, only one person was visible, and that was my uncle's valet. "Why, what! How's this? Where's the Captain?" exclaimed my uncle. "Speak low," he added, pointing to the drawing-room, as a sign he did not wish Daphne to hear. "Captain Willard is not at the church, sir," whispered the man. "Not--at--the--church?" repeated my uncle, pausing with astonishment between each word. "No, sir. At least he hadn't arrived by the time I left. I have been waiting for him, and that's what has made me so long." "What time did you leave the church?" "Quarter past ten." "And he was to have been there at half past nine!" cried my uncle. "The Vicar wishes to know what you are going to do," said the valet. "Is he or his curate to come and perform the ceremony here?" "That's a question that cannot be settled without George," replied my uncle. "Of course he's only being delayed through the snow. It's extremely awkward. What _are_ we to do?" He paused a moment to reflect, and then said: "Go to the church again. If the Captain is not there tell the verger to send him on here as soon as he arrives; and ask the Vicar or his assistant to step over here. Then hasten at once to the _Métropole_, and _see whether_--whether any accident has happened to my nephew. Hurry!" We returned to the drawing-room and explained matters to Daphne, my uncle striving to put the best complexion he could upon the case. "It's only the stress of weather that's delaying him," he remarked. "George very likely spent last night with a friend--a brother officer, probably--who lives in the suburbs. The cab ordered to convey him this morning is unable to proceed, and so he's obliged to tramp on foot through twenty-five inches of snow. No wonder he's late, then. There's nothing to be alarmed at, little woman."