There was a great wedding at Prospect Hill on the night of the 15th, but neither Lucy nor Arthur were there. He lay sick again at the St. Denis, in New York, and she was alone in her chamber fighting back her tears, and praying that now the worst was over she might be withheld from looking back and wishing the work undone. She went with the bridal party to New York, where she tarried for a few days, but saw no one but Anna, for whom she sent at once. The interview lasted more than an hour, and Anna’s eyes were swollen with weeping when at last it ended; but Lucy’s face, though white as snow, was very calm and quiet, and wore a peaceful, placid look which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks later, and the steamer Java bore her away across the water, where she hoped to outlive the storm which had beaten so piteously upon her. Thornton Hastings and Anna went with her on board the ship, and for their sakes she tried to appear natural, succeeding so well that it was a very pleasant picture, which Thornton kept in his mind, of a frail little figure standing upon the deck, holding its water-proof together with one hand, and with the other waving a smiling adieu to Anna and himself. More than a year later Thornton Hastings followed that figure across the sea, and found it in beautiful Venice, sailing again through the moonlit streets, and listening to the music which came so oft from the passing gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness, and the face was even more beautiful than it had been before, for the light frivolity was gone, and there was in its stead a peaceful, subdued expression which made Lucy Harcourt more attractive than she had ever been. At least so Thornton Hastings thought, and he lingered at her side, and felt glad that she gave no outward token of agitation when he said to her: “There was a wedding at St. Mark’s in Hanover just before I left. Can you guess who the happy couple were?” “Yes, Arthur and Anna. She wrote me they were to be married on Christmas eve. I am so glad it has come around at last.” Then she questioned him of the bridal,—of Arthur,—and even of Anna’s dress, her manner evincing that the old wound had healed, or was healing very fast, and that soon only a scar would remain to tell where it had been. And so the days went on beneath the sunny Italian skies, until one glorious night in Rome, when they sat together amid the ruins of the Colosseum, and Thornton spoke his mind, alluding to the time when each had loved another, expressing himself as glad that in his case the matter had ended as it did, and then asking Lucy if she could conscientiously be his wife. “What! You marry a frivolous plaything like me?” Lucy asked, her woman’s pride flashing up once more, but this time playfully, as Thornton knew by the joyous light in her eye.