Just before the ceremony commenced there was the sound of a heavy footstep upon the outer porch, a loud knock at the door, and then into the room came Mr. Gilbert!  He seemed slightly agitated, but not one-half so much as Mrs. Hudson, who exclaimed, “William, my son, why are you here?”

“I came to witness my sister’s bridal,” was the answer; and turning toward the clergyman, he said, somewhat authoritatively, “Do not delay for me, sir.  Go on.”

There was a movement in the next room, and then the bridal party entered, both starting with surprise as they saw Mr. Gilbert.  Very beautiful did Mabel look as she stood up to take upon herself the marriage vow, not a syllable of which did one of us hear.  We were thinking of Mr. Gilbert, and the strange words, “my son” and “my sister.”

When it was over, and Mabel was Mrs. Sherwood, Mr. Gilbert approached Mrs. Hudson, saying, “Come, mother, let me lead you to the bride.”

With an impatient gesture she waved him off, and going alone to her daughter, threw her arms around her neck, sobbing convulsively.  There was an awkward silence, and then Mr. Gilbert, thinking he was called upon for an explanation, arose, and addressing himself mostly to Mr. Sherwood, said, “I suppose what has transpired here to-night seems rather strange, and will undoubtedly furnish the neighborhood with gossip for more than a week, but they are welcome to canvass, whatever I do.  I can’t help it if I was born with an unusual degree of pride, neither can I help feeling mortified, as I many times did, at my family, particularly after she,” glancing at his mother, “married the man whose name she bears.”

Here Mrs. Hudson lifted up her head, and coming to Mr. Gilbert’s side, stood proudly erect, while he continued:  “She would tell you he was a good man, but I hated him, and swore never to enter the house while he lived.  I went away, took care of myself, grew rich, married into one of the first families in Hartford, and—­and—­”

Here he paused, and his mother, continuing the sentence, added, “and grew ashamed of your own mother, who many a time went without the comforts of life that you might be educated.  You were always a proud, wayward boy, William, but never did I think you would do as you have done.  You have treated me with utter neglect, never allowing your wife to see me, and when I once proposed visiting you in Hartford you asked your brother, now dead, to dissuade me from it, if possible, for you could not introduce me to your acquaintances as your mother.  Never do you speak of me to your children, who, if they know they have a grandmother, little dream that she lives within a mile of their father’s dwelling.  One of them I have seen, and my heart yearned toward her as it did toward you when first I took you in my arms, my first-born baby; and yet, William, I thank Heaven there is in her sweet face no trace of her father’s features.  This may sound harsh, unmotherly, but greatly have I been sinned against, and now, just as a brighter day is dawning upon me, why have you come here?  Say, William, why?”