"Sensible girl," he chuckles, beaming upon her. "Knew better than to refuse uncle's fortune, didn't you, Reine?" She stares at him, her rosy cheeks grow pale. "I don't understand," she falters. "Didn't you tell her?" Mr. Langton demands of Vane. "No, I forgot. After all, it wasn't necessary," he answers. "Cunning dog," the old man laughs. "So she took you for yourself alone? Well, I told you so. She has a true heart in spite of her wild ways." But Reine stares from one to the other, vaguely troubled. Mr. Langton bends and kisses the fair, low brow. "Reine, you are my heiress now," he says. "I shall cut Maud off with a shilling. You and Vane will have all my money when I am dead." "Oh, if you please, Uncle Langton, I'd rather not," she cries, breathlessly, then she looks at Vane. "Is he taking me for the money?" she says, with a flash of disdain in her great, black eyes. Vane flushes an angry crimson, but his old friend interferes. "No, you little goose," he replies, severely, "He's taking you because you're a deuced pretty girl, and worth a dozen disobedient Mauds. Now will you put on that wedding-veil there, and go down-stairs with him and show those gaping, gossiping simpletons that there's a bride after all, and the wedding-feast will not be spoiled by the groom's sorrow?" He rings the bell with the words. A trim maid appears with a quickness that would argue that she had been listening outside the door. "Put that wedding-veil on Miss Langton," commands her master. "She will be the bride, and also my heiress." "Miss Reine, let me congratulate you," the girl exclaims, with a heartiness that shows how Reine has won her way since she came to Langton Villa. In five minutes the veil is on, with the trailing sprays of orange flowers meant for Maud. The rich, white silk, with its lace flounces, makes no inappropriate bridal dress. But Reine stands still, a lovely bride, grown suddenly strangely pale and grave-looking. "Now, Mary, hunt up the bride's-maids while I go down and notify the minister," adjures Mr. Langton. They go, and the bride and groom remain alone together. She stands shyly in the center of the room, with drooping eyes, dark, slender, lovely, but strangely unlike the fair and stately Juno Vane Charteris has pictured these many days as his bride. They speak no word to each other, and the laughing "men and maidens" come in and surround them. "It is just like a novel," one says; and another: "It serves Maud right," and all agree that it is "just too romantic for anything," and are glad there will be a wedding after all.