"To my mind, that exquisitely bound Bible is the prettiest thing in the collection," he returns. "It is beautiful. That is from her Sunday-school children. This ruby necklace, set in gold and pearls, is from Mrs. Conway----" "And this?" he touches a sandal-wood jewel casket, satin-lined, and holding a pair of slender dead-gold bracelets with monograms exquisitely wrought in diamonds--"this is----" "My gift to Lulu." "Oh! they are beautiful, as are all the things. But, do you know, Mrs. Winans, that I am so old-fashioned in my ideas that I do not approve of the habit of making wedding presents--no, I do not mean where friendship or love prompts the gift--but the indiscriminate practice, you understand!" "You are right; but in the case of your sister, Captain Clendenon, I think that the most of her very pretty collection of wedding gifts are the spontaneous expressions of genuine affection and respect. Lulu is very much beloved among her circle of friends." "You, at least," he says, reflectively, "will miss her greatly. You have so long honored her by your preference for her society and companionship. How will you fill up the long months of her absence?" She sighs softly. "She has left me a precious charge--all her poor to look after, her heathen fund, her sewing society--much that has been her sole charge heretofore, and which I fear may be but imperfectly fulfilled by me. Still I will do my best." "You always do your best, I think, in all that you undertake," says this loyal heart. "Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, I think," she answers, with a faint flush evoked by his quiet meed of praise. Then people begin to flock in to look at the wedding gifts and at Grace Winans, who is the loveliest thing of all. She has on a wedding garment in the shape of pale violet silk, with overdress of cool muslin, trimmed with Valenciennes, white kid gloves and turquois ornaments set in pearls. The wedding guests wore their bonnets, and she had a flimsy affair of white lace studded with pansies on the top of her graceful head. Her dress was somewhat after the style of fashionable half-mourning. She had selected it purposely because not knowing if she were wife or widow a more showy attire was repugnant to her feelings. "This," she said, touching a costly little prayer-book with golden cross, monogram, and clasps. "This, I fancy, is from you." "You are right," he answered. "This set of the poets so handsomely bound is from mother. But are you not weary of looking at all these things? Shall we not go and find Lulu?" "By the way," she says, idly, as they slowly pass through the politely staring throng, exchanging frequent nods and smiles with acquaintances, and occasional compliments with more intimate friends, "there is a report--have you heard it?--from Memphis, Tennessee--of the _yellow fever_."