Jessie was growing very earnest, very sympathetic, very sorry for the unsuspecting bridegroom, and as his hand still continued to smooth her curls, she suddenly caught it between her own, and giving it a squeeze darted from the room, leaving the Squire to wonder at her manner, and to style her mentally “a nice little girl, whom it would not be hard for any man to love.” CHAPTER XXIII. THE BRIDAL DAY. The morning was breaking in the east,—a bright, rosy morning, such as is usual in early September,—a morning when the birds sang as gayly among the trees as in the summer-time, and when the dew-drops glittered on the flowers just as they had done in the mornings of the past. All night the gas had burned dimly in the sick-room across the street, and all the night the sick man had prayed that he might be prepared for what the future had in store, whether of joy or sorrow. All night Jessie and Johnnie had slept uneasily, dreaming, one of the Roman Forum, where he repeated the speech made at his last exhibition, and the other that she, instead of Dora, wore the bridal wreath and stood at John Russell’s side, and found it not so very terrible after all. All night Squire Russell had lain awake, with a strange, half sad, half delicious feeling of unrest, which drove slumber from his pillow, but brought no shadow of the storm gathering round his head. All night, too, Dora,—but over the scene of agony, contrition, remorse, terror, hope, and despair which her chamber witnessed, we draw a veil, and speak only of the results. With the dawn the household was astir, for the elaborate breakfast was to be served before the ceremony, which was to take place at half past seven. In the children’s room there was first the opening of sleepy little eyes, as Clem called out, “Come, come, wake up. This is your father’s wedding-day.” Then there was a scampering across the floor, a patter of tiny feet, a chorus of birdlike voices, mingled occasionally with wrathful exclamations as Ben’s antagonistic propensities clashed with those of Burt, who declared that “Aunt Dora was going to be father’s mother, too, as well as theirs.” Then there were louder tones, and finally a fight, which was quelled by Jessie, who appeared in dressing-gown, with her brush in hand, and seemed in no hurry to finish a toilet which she intuitively felt would be made for naught.