ter the loss of a sister by marriage is but a foretaste of that one inevitable parting, that now when it comes may find the tight bond of childhood hanging loosely about either, and so perhaps will give less pain than this first wrench of associations and sympathies.

She was surprised out of her reverie of their childish days by Henrietta's voice, "Barbara!"

"Yes," she said, going to the bedside, and trying to speak cheerfully, "It is such a fine day!"

"Don't talk about the day," said Henrietta, shuddering; "Oh, Barbara," and she flung her arms round her sister's neck, "what am I doing?"

She looked up into Barbara's face, her eyes red, her features swollen with crying. For the last hour poor Hetty had buried her face in her pillow to hide her tears.

"Doing?" repeated Barbara, bewildered.

Yes, to marry," she said, slowly, "When I have been so happy-so happy here."

Barbara knew not what to answer.

"It is such an awful thing to do. I only read the service through last night. I ought not to marry."

"It-it is not too late," began Barbara.

"Too late? what do

you mean ?"

"To put it off, to give it up, if you

don't love-"

"Love ?" repeated Henrietta, indignantly, "I love, honour, and esteem him, but what can he do for me? I who never really saw what I was undertaking till last night. Can he really take me for ever, for better, for worse? He would not if he knew me, knew how little I had cared to think what I was doing. Barbara, I am afraid."

"You need not be, he loves you with all his heart." "I am afraid of myself. How can God bless a marriage so lightly undertaken ? Oh, if mamma had but told me what it seemed when one came face to face with it."

She laid her head upon Barbara's shoulder, and cried quietly. At length she looked up saying, "Don't be angry with me for being so silly-it is the last time I must trouble you with my griefs-but, Barbara," she added, hurriedly and anxiously, "if things ever go wrong with us, ever, you will know it is all fault-all."

my

What could she mean? Perhaps the promised bride knew as little as her sister. But from that moment her mind seemed eased, she lay down again, and was soon sleeping, if not quietly, at least not restlessly.

The wedding was to be at eleven; Barbara dressed with her fellow-bridesmaids in another room; she went to her sister's room at half-past ten to find Henrietta dressed and seated waiting, her hands folded on her knees. She was looking very pretty, yet oh, how different from the sweet, innocent, serene bride that Barbara had always pictured her ingenuous, good-humoured sister. Her blue eyes wandered restlessly about, the soft pink of her cheek seemed compressed into one burning spot, her fingers were tight clasped as if in pain.

"Go, please go," she said, faintly.

Barbara went, a terrible misgiving at her heart, then at the door turned again, and going up to her, took

her hand.

Hetty started, almost screamed.

"Hetty," said Barbara, hoarsely, "if-if-"

"How dare you ?" cried her sister, rising and standing upright, "go; I am well, happy, and if I were not I do not want you!"

She stood as if with her wedding-dress marriage had even now begun to cast its shadows before upon her. Erect, indignant, her head thrown back, the long veil falling from the orange wreath over her low, firm shoulders, her figure in the white silk already stately and matronly.

But the burst of anger was but for a moment, the

next the poor girl's head was upon Barbara's shoulder, and she herself was sobbing tearless sobs.

"My dear, dear sister!"

Hetty looked up with her own sweet quaint smile, "Barbara, never marry; if I had known what the leaving you all would be, I never would. See, it has made me quarrel with the person I love next best in the world to-"

She stopped and blushed, but with so happy a face that Barbara could not but be content, and forced to dismiss all misgivings. We say forced, for so fond are all of being right that perhaps honest-hearted Barbara would not have been sorry to find her sister had some doubts as to whether George Cradock was very likely to be the husband which they had once agreed in thinking all husbands ought to be.

Through the bridesmaids, standing on either side, ready to close and fall into procession behind her, Henrietta Wynne passed to the Altar scarcely half an hour later. How she looked then Barbara could not tell, but when, the solemn service over, the names signed, and needful congratulations gone through,she walked once more down the aisle of the ugly Hanoverian church, this time leaning on her husband's arm, she was all that Barbara had ever pictured her; her gaiety softened into sweetness, her saucy shyness into modesty, her prettiness heightened into loveliness, so radiant, trusting, and content was her hanging head.

The breakfast, the change of dress, the last partings-the twelve very trying ones, and the many scarcely less so were over, and her father, sadder even than his daughter herself, was leading her into the carriage, when she slipped her arm out of his and ran back to the hall.

"Barbara!" but Barbara was in the parlour, thinking so to watch them off unseen, too miserable to be angry at the tears which had made her lose, as she thought, the last sight of Henrietta Wynne.

"Barbara!" said Hetty, taking her hands in hers and smiling her gay smile, "you forgive me? quite? I am asking your pardon for the last time, for we have never quarrelled before, and never shall again, for no one will ever dare to say one word against my husband."

Half in jest, half to choke a sob, she flung back her head once more. The indescribable change had already settled itself on the young brow, the timidity of girlhood fading away before the quiet confidence of the happy wife.

66

No, I never will," said Barbara, earnestly, “good

bye."

"Good-bye, you dear thing.-Good-bye, all," as she ran through the hall again, turning back one moment on the steps to smile and repeat that word. And so her brothers' and sisters' last glimpse of their married sister was of one of her old sweet happy faces, and light-hearted gestures.

"So now," said Frank, "it is all over, and well over too."

"Now," thought Paul, "it is all begun-what a pleasant sister we have lost!"

The few relations assembled were merciful enough to disperse quickly, and in less than an hour the home party were left alone together, with nearly eight hours of the day still before them in which to feel the blank which the putting aside of all business and ordinary occupation left all so much the more time to recal.

66

Mamma, you will go and rest," were Paul's first words.

"I? nonsense! where is papa ?”

Mr. Wynne was seen still standing at the gates, watching the tiny speck which the carriage now appeared in the straight flatness of Marsh Lane. His wife went down the flagged pathway to put her arm through his and gaze with him, till even this was lost at the turn into the London Road.

Mr. Wynne's answer was a sigh.

"It makes me think of our own old times. Do you remember our first walk after we came here to the mill? Will you walk with me there now ?"

"With all my heart, my dear, but not the children," as he looked back at the groups of listless girls and idle boys still hanging about the hall.

"No, Barbara and Paul will see to them; I will keep you scarcely five minutes."

She ran back with nearly as light a step as that with which her young daughter had trod those very flags just ten minutes before.

"Where is Barbara ?" she asked, as she passed quickly through the hall.

"Upstairs, I think," answered Elizabeth.

66

Run, my dear, and tell her I want her in my room."

Elizabeth went at once, but Mrs. Wynne had been ready some moments before her now eldest daughter appeared, and then it was with red eyes and a broken voice.

"My dear!—well, perhaps it is natural, but now Hetty is gone, you must think of your brothers and sisters before yourself. I am going to walk with papa; the boys will grow idle and mischievous if not amused; settle something with Paul, the pony carriage an excursion by train-a walk-anything any of them like."

"Yes, mamma.'

"My dear, I seem harsh, but when you come to my age you will see life is too full of duties for one to have time for sorrows. Oh, Barbara, my child! my child the first I have ever lost!"

"Mamma, we shall all try-" began Barbara, alarmed at her mother's sudden burst of grief.

"Yes," she said slowly, "it is all for the best, all right. But I am keeping papa. Good-bye, my love, you must be my right hand now."

Had Hetty then been their mother's right hand? Barbara could find no answer to the question.

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