The leaves were all dropping when Laura came home, and was received into the spirit of the autumn, breathing in that sense of silence that comes from absence of the birds, while in still mornings, unstirred of any wind, the leaves let themselves go, and the flowers give it up and drop and close.  She was rather sad; but she found amusement in writing to Liz, and as the days got to their shortest, with nothing to relieve their monotony, there was pleasure to be got out of the long answers, which set forth how Valentine was really going to be married soon after Christmas, and what Liz was going to wear, how Dorothea was coming down to be married from Wigfield House, to please “sister,” and how it would all be such fun—­“Only three weeks, Laura dear, to the delightful day!” Finally, how Dorothea had arrived—­and oh, such a lovely trousseau! and she had never looked half so sweet and pretty before, “and in four days, dear, the wedding is to be; eighty people to breakfast—­only think! and you shall be told all about it.”

Laura felt herself slightly injured when, a week after this, she had not been told anything.  She felt even surprised when another week passed, and yet there was silence; but at the end of it, she came rushing one morning into Amelia’s room, quite flushed from excitement, and with an open letter in her hand.

“They’re not married at all,” she exclaimed, “Valentine and Miss Graham!  There has been no wedding, and there is none coming off.  Valentine has jilted her.”

“Nonsense,” cried Mrs. Melcombe.  “You must be dreaming—­things had gone so far,” and she sat down, feeling suddenly weak from amazement.

“But it is so,” repeated Laura, “here is the whole account, I tell you.  When the time came he never appeared.”

“What a disgraceful shame!” exclaimed Amelia, and Laura proceeded to read to her this long-expected letter:—­

“Dearest Laura,—­I don’t know how to begin, and I hardly know what to tell you, because I am so ashamed of it all; and I promised to give you an account of the wedding, but I can’t.  What will you think when I tell you that there was none?  Valentine never came.  I told you that Dorothea was in the house, but that he had gone away to take leave of various friends, because, after the wedding, they were to sail almost immediately, and so,—­I must make short work with this, because I hate it to that degree.  There was the great snowstorm, as you know, and when he did not come home we thought he must be blocked up somewhere, and then we were afraid he was very ill.  At last when still it snowed, and still he did not come, Giles went in search of him, and it was not till the very day before the wedding that he got back, having found out the whole detestable thing.

“Poor Val! and we used to think him such a dear fellow.  Of course I cannot help being fond of him still, but, Laura, he has disgracefully attached himself to another girl; he could not bear to come home and be married, and he knew St. George would be in such a rage that he did not dare to tell.”