“What slight words will sting us that breathe of the past, And slight things will bring us thoughts fated to last; The fond hopes that centered in thee are all dead, But the iron has entered the soul where they fed. “Like others in seeming, I must walk through life’s part, Cold, careless, and dreaming--with death in the heart, No hope, no forgiveness--the spring of life o’er, All died with that sentence--I love thee no more!” Viola having made the acquaintance of Rolfe Maxwell thus accidentally, saw him several times afterward, twice when she tripped into the library for a book she wanted, begging in sweetest accents that he would not mind her coming, and several times when they simply passed each other in the hall with polite bows of recognition, undreaming yet of the part each was fated to play in the other’s life. He knew that she was going to be married directly, and that the house was in confusion with the preparations, and he worked as hard as he could to get through with his task, coming back in the evenings and writing sometimes till almost midnight. So the days slipped quickly by till it was Viola’s wedding-eve. Tomorrow at high noon she was to be married from a fashionable church, attended by some of the prettiest girls in her set as maids of honor. They were more than anxious to perform this service for Viola in their eagerness to see the irresistible young beauty safely married off out of their way. Everything was in readiness; the bridal-gown--a dream of snow-white beauty, brocaded satin, with priceless point-lace veil--was perfect; the bridal-pearls--her father’s gift--exquisite. Her trunks were packed with beautiful robes, the envy of all her feminine friends. She sat alone that evening, waiting for Philip, who had promised to make a short call, even though it was the bridal-eve, and Aunt Edwina had hinted that Viola ought to have a long beauty sleep. Against the background of her dark-blue silk, with its creamy laces, her fair face shone like a delicate flower, smiles on her lips and joy in her eyes. She said to herself that she was the happiest girl in the wide world. She knew she did not quite deserve it, because she had certainly brought some unhappiness into others’ lives through her willful coquetries; but that was all past and done with now, and she was going to be a better girl. She did not remember what one of the great masters of literature has written: “Consequences are unpitying.” As her wedding-day came so near, with its attendant hurry and excitement, she forgot the forebodings of evil that had tortured her a few weeks ago. Every unpleasant thought had taken wing. She forgot Florian and remembered only Philip. Glancing around the luxurious room that seemed so lonely without him, she tapped her dainty foot impatiently, murmuring: “I wish he would come!” As if in answer to her aspiration, she heard a ring at the front door, and some one being ushered into the hall.