Every room in the house was attended.

“There never was such pretty serving,” said Mrs. Van Alstyne, afterward.  “Where did they get such people?—­And beautiful serving,” she went on, reverting to her favorite axiom, “is, after all, the very soul of living!”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Barbara, gravely.  “I think we shall find that true always.”

Opposite the door into the garden porch were corresponding ones into the hall, and directly down to these reached the last flight of the staircase, that skirted the walls at the back with its steps and landings.  We could see Leslie all the way, as she came down, with her hand in her father’s arm.

She descended beside him like a softly accompanying white cloud; her dress was of tulle, without a hitch or a puff or a festoon about it.  It had two skirts, I believe, but they were plain-hemmed, and fell like a mist about her figure.  Underneath was no rustling silk, or shining satin; only more mist, of finest, sheerest quaker-muslin; you could not tell where the cloud met the opaque of soft, unstarched cambric below it all.  And from her head to her feet floated the shimmering veil, fastened to her hair with only two or three tube-rose blooms and the green leaves and white stars of the larger myrtle.  There was a cluster of them upon her bosom, and she held some in her left hand.

Dr. Hautayne looked nobly handsome, as he came forward to her side in his military dress; but I think we all had another picture of him in our minds,—­dusty, and battle-stained, bareheaded, in his shirt-sleeves, as he rode across the fire to save men’s lives.  When a man has once looked like that, it does not matter how he ever merely looks again.

Marmaduke Wharne stood close by Ruth, during the service.  She saw his gray, shaggy brows knit themselves into a low, earnest frown, as he fixedly watched and listened; but there was a shining underneath, as still water-drops shine under the gray moss of some old, cleft rock; and a pleasure upon the lines of the rough-cast face, that was like the tender glimmering of a sunbeam.

When Marmaduke Wharne first saw John Hautayne, he put his hand upon his shoulder, and held him so, while he looked him hardly in the face.

“Do you think you deserve her, John?” the old man said.  And John looked him back, and answered straightly, “No!” It was not mere apt and effective reply; there was an honest heartful on the lips and in the eyes; and Leslie’s old friend let his hand slip down along the strong, young arm, until it grasped the answering hand, and said again,—­

“Perhaps, then, John,—­you’ll do!”

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” That is what the church asks, in her service, though nobody asked it here to-day.  But we all felt we had a share to give of what we loved so much.  Her father and her mother gave; her girl friends gave; Miss Trixie Spring, Arabel Waite, Delia, little Arctura, the home-servants, gathered in the door-way, all gave; Miss Craydocke, crying, and disdaining her pocket-handkerchief till the tears trickled off her chin, because she was smiling also and would not cover that up,—­gave; and nobody gave with a more loving wrench out of a deep heart, than bluff old frowning Marmaduke Wharne.