The bride was, of course, the, cynosure of all eyes.  Attired in rich, creamy-white satin, the corsage shaded with folds of delicate lace, with coral ornaments on her neck and arms, and with the heavy masses of her dark hair interwoven with coral beads, she looked extremely beautiful, and was pronounced by the ladies present to be “handsome and stylish-looking, but decidedly dull.”  This latter accusation was more truthful than such charges usually are.  Mrs. Clement Rutherford did feel unusually stupid.  She was ennuye by the long, formal, stately dinner; she knew but few of the persons present; and her point-lace fan was frequently called into requisition to conceal her yawns.  The game had been served before her next neighbor, a sprightly young New Yorker, who had been rather fascinated by her beauty, contrived to arouse her into something like animation.  He succeeded at last, however, and it was not long before an unusually brilliant sally drew a merry laugh from her lips.  Her laugh was peculiar—­a low, musical, trilling sound, mirthful and melodious as the chime of a silver bell.

As its joyous music rang on the air, Mrs. Rutherford turned ghastly pale.  She gasped convulsively, half rose from her seat and fell back in a deathlike swoon.

Of course all was instantly confusion and dismay.  The guests sprang up, the waiters hurried forward—­Horace was instantly at his mother’s side.

“She has only fainted,” he said in his clear, decided tones.  “She will be better in a few moments.  Let me beg of you, my friends, to resume your seats.  Clement, will you oblige me by taking our mother’s post?”

With the help of Mrs. Rutherford’s special attendant, Horace supported the already reviving sufferer from the room.  They conveyed her to her sleeping apartment, where restoratives and cold water were freely used, and she soon regained perfect consciousness.  But returning animation seemed to bring with it a strange and overwhelming sorrow.  When the servant had retired, leaving her alone with her son, she refused to answer any of his queries, and burying her face in her pillow, she wept with convulsive and irrepressible violence.  At length the very vehemence of her grief seemed, by exhausting itself, to restore her to comparative calm:  her tears ceased to flow, her heavy sobs no longer shook her frame, and she remained for some time perfectly quiet and silent.  At length she spoke: 

“Horace!”

“What is it, mother?”

“Describe to me the personal appearance of your brother’s wife—­minutely, as though a picture were to be painted from your words.”

It was no unusual request.  Horace was in the habit of thus minutely describing persons and places for his mother’s benefit.