And then the door opened and the bride appeared, leaning on her uncle’s arm.  Emma Campbell, leaning forward, got one glimpse of the face but slightly concealed by the thin, floating tulle veil pinned on with a wreath of orange-blossoms, caught one gleam from the narrowed eyes; and her own eyes bulged in her head, her mouth fell open.  Emma wished to protest, to cry, to pray aloud.

The bride was magnificently dressed, in a gown that was much too elaborate for her angular and undeveloped young figure.  It made her look over-dressed and absurd to a pitiful degree, as if she were masquerading.  The hair-dresser whom she had called to her aid had done her worst.  Nancy had an unusual quantity of hair, and it had been curled and frizzed, and puffed and pulled, until the girl’s head appeared twice its natural size.  Through the fine lace of her sleeves were visible her thin, sunburned arms.  Her naturally dark eyebrows had been accentuated, and there was a bright red patch on each cheek, her lips being equally crimson.  Out of the rouged and powdered face crowned by towering red hair, the multitude of freckles showed defiantly, two fierce eyes lowered.

As Peter met the stare of those narrowed eyes, to save his life he couldn’t keep from showing his downright consternation.  His aversion and distaste were so manifest, that a deeper red than rouge stained the girl’s cheek and mottled her countenance.  Her impulse was to raise her hand and strike him across his wincing mouth.

What Nancy saw was a tall, thin, shambling young fellow whose face was pale with an emotion not at all complimentary to herself.  He didn’t like her!  He thought her hideous!  He despised her!  So she read Peter’s expressive eyes.  She thought him a fool, to stand there staring at her like that, and she hated him.  She detested him.  Puppy!

She saw his glance of piteous entreaty, and Mr. Chadwick Champneys’s bland, blind ignoring of its silent reproach and appeal.  And then the long-legged young fellow pulled himself together.  His head went up, his mouth hardened, and his voice didn’t shake when he promised to cherish and protect her, until death did them part.

All the while Peter felt that he was struggling in a hideous dream.  That bride in white satin wasn’t real; his uncle wouldn’t play him such a trick!  Peter cringed when the defiant voice of the girl snapped her “I do” and “I will.”

The clergyman’s voice had trailed off.  He was calling her “Mrs. Champneys.”  And Mr. Vandervelde and his handsome wife were shaking hands with her and Peter, and saying pleasant, polite, conventional things to them both.  She signed a paper.  And that old nigger-woman kept staring at her; but Peter avoided meeting her eyes.  And her uncle was saying that she must change her frock now, my dear:  Peter’s boat sailed within the hour, remember.  And then she was back in her room, tearing off the dress that only last night she had so fondly fingered.