“Father, on thy heart I lean
When the world comes not between.”

* * * * *

August 30.  Sylvia and Horace were married under sunshine yesterday in the little chantry of the church that is used in winter and for week-day services.  To-day the cold northeasterly storm has come, under cover of which August so often disappears and September enters the marshes upon the wings of low-flying plovers, to the discordant call of the first waterfowl of the return migration.

Mr. Latham came to the wedding.  In fact, he has been here several times during the month.  He is a well-built man, under sixty, dark and taciturn, and would be handsome but for the hard expression of his face.

His attitude toward the world has seemed to be one of perpetual parry and self-defence; of course he may have good reason for this distrust, or, as Evan says, he may have brought the necessity upon himself by his constant severity of attack on others.  Yesterday I partly changed my mind about him.  He evidently once had tender feelings, but, from what cause who can say, they have in some way been compressed and frozen until they exist only as hurts.

Sylvia was married in bridal white.  She had wished to wear a travelling gown and go away from the chantry door, but Miss Lavinia argued her out of the notion, saying, “Horace has the right to a pretty bride, even if you do not care.”  It would have taken but very little, after the strain of the last two months, to make Sylvia morbid and old beyond her years, her one thought seeming to be to get away from the surroundings of the past year and begin to live anew.

Our group, and a dozen friends of the Bradfords, including some from Northbridge who belonged to both, filled the little chapel which Horace, Martin, and Evan had trimmed with flowers wholly from our garden.  At the last moment, Mrs. Jenks-Smith, whom we thought abroad, dashed up in a depot hack, perspiring and radiant, her smart gown having a most peculiar and unnatural looking promontory on the chest.  “No, my dear, I’m not in Carlsbad.  Jenks-Smith was called back on business, and I sniffed the wedding in the air and hooked on,—­only arrived last night. Have you seen the papers?  Hush, I’ll tell you later,” and her voice sank into an awed whisper, and she gave a startled look as the bride entered on her father’s arm, with Ian and Richard as her only attendants.  Having heard so much talk of marrying and of weddings, they had asked Sylvia to let them be “bridesmaids,” and it seemed she really wanted them.  Their faces were solemn to the verge of comedy as they walked hand in hand before her, their feet in brand-new pumps, keeping step and pointing out carefully, while their evident satisfaction brought a smile like a ray of belated sunshine to the face of the serious bride.