“I don’t see why she should choose to make herself an unbidden guest at our wedding! I hated her living, and I do not crave her company now that she is dead!” “Lelia!” her mother cried, in warning expostulation, while Laurie started back so suddenly as to release himself from her clinging arms. “You have forgotten that we should speak no ill of the dead, Lelia,” he said sternly. “I do not care! I will not play the hypocrite!” she was beginning angrily, when a hasty rap at the door gave them all a violent start. Laurie flew to open it, thankful for an interruption to his bride’s hysterics. It was Miss Willoughby’s faithful maid, tearful and nervous. “Oh, do come quick as you can to my mistress. She has taken a sudden turn for the worse, and Mrs. Goodwill says she is almost gone!” she sobbed. “Laurie, do not leave me! Mama, you may go, but I cannot bear to see Aunt Cyrilla die!” cried Lelia, burying her face in the pillow; but Laurie, without reply, darted from the room to that of the invalid, whither Mrs. Ritchie followed, presently, dragging her sullen, reluctant daughter by the hand. They saw Laurie kneeling by the bed, wiping away the death dew from the blue, pinched face, and gazing in tender sorrow on the beloved relative sinking away so fast into the eternal silence of death--a few faint gasps and all was over, and again the pall of woe hung darkly over The Crags. CHAPTER XXVII. A FORGOTTEN BRIDE. She was dead, the gentle mistress of The Crags, without ever recovering consciousness, without a parting word or look for the relatives who watched around her bed--she had always had a weak heart, said the doctor, and a shock of grief had broken it. It was a most inauspicious happening for a bridal night; the whole household felt it so. Every one sympathized with the bridegroom, but Lelia got scant sympathy. They all whispered among themselves that the wedding had been urged on with most indecent haste when the mistress of The Crags lay so critically ill, and they laid it all at Lelia’s door, not scrupling to hint that the pretended suicide had been merely a means to an end. But that end had been most cleverly accomplished, and whether she or her husband inherited The Crags she would still be mistress, substituting an iron sway for the gentle rule of Miss Willoughby. The prospect was not very alluring to the indulged servants, and they all hinted at leaving in a body as soon as the funeral was over. For there must be a funeral now--Lelia could not prevent it as she had done the other. She did not wish it, indeed, for as soon as her mother led her back to her room she began to plan, eagerly, for a mourning suit--that must be ordered for the occasion. “Though I shall only wear black to the funeral; of course, as a bride, I cannot be expected to go into regular mourning,” she said complacently. Mrs. Ritchie looked doubtful, saying: “Aren’t you afraid that people will talk?”