“Indeed I will,” she responded, heartily, though she appeared greatly agitated as she drew Virgie into her arms and tenderly kissed her blushing cheek; “and I give her to you very willingly, because I feel sure that you are worthy of her, and I am confident that you will make each other happy. Still,” she added, a little sadness in her voice, “it is not an easy thing for a mother to give away her only child, or to feel that she has been supplanted in her affections.” “Not supplanted, mamma—do not say that!” cried Virgie, clinging to her; “it could not be! I could never love you less, even though I——” “Even though you love Rupert more,” interposed her mother, archly. “I expect that, of course, and would not have it otherwise. I wish you to be all in all to each other, and,” her voice growing husky with emotion, “may no cloud ever dim your happiness; may nothing ever come between you to mar your confidence in each other. Oh, my darling!” she cried, in a voice of agony, as she folded the lovely girl almost convulsively to her heart, and seeming to forget for the moment where she was, “I would rather lay you away in your grave to-day than to have you live to suffer what I have suffered.” “Mamma,” cried Virgie, looking up anxiously into the almost convulsed face bending over her, “what can you mean? I have never seen you so unnerved before. Surely if you are in trouble, you should not hide it from me.” “Forgive me, love, for casting a shadow upon your joy at this time,” said her mother, recovering herself with an effort; “but your happiness brought back all my own early hopes—hopes that were most cruelly blighted—so vividly that I forgot myself. Do not mind me, Virgie; your future looks very bright, and I have done wrong even to allude to anything to distress you on this day of all others.” Virgie stood back and looked gravely into her mother’s face. “Mamma,” she said, with a seriousness that was new to her, “I fear that you have been hiding something from me all my life. I have often suspected it, and your excessive agitation this morning proves it. If you have known any great trouble in the past; if, as I surmise, it is connected with my father, I feel that you ought to confide it to me, and let me at least sympathize with, if I cannot alleviate, your sorrow.” Mrs. Alexander grew very thoughtful at these words. For a moment she stood irresolute, then a look of resolve overspread her face, and she said: