“I can see nothing amiss,” Rose answered, with a slight tremble in her voice.  “My darling, I never saw you so wondrously sweet and fair,” she whispered, adjusting a fold of the drapery.  “You are very happy?”

“Very, mamma dear; yet a trifle sad too.  But that is a secret between you and me.  How beautiful you are to-night.”

“Ah, dear child, quite ready, and the loveliest bride that ever I saw, from the sole of your head to the crown of your foot,” said a silvery voice, as a quaint little figure came softly in and stood at Mrs. Dinsmore’s side—­“no, I mean from the crown of your foot to the sole of your head.  Ah, funerals are almost as sad as weddings.  I don’t know how people can ever feel like dancing at them.”

“Well, auntie dear, there’ll be no dancing at mine,” said Elsie, smiling slightly.

“I must go and be ready to receive our guests,” said Rose, hearing the rumble of carriage wheels.  “Elsie, dear child,” she whispered, “keep calm.  You can have no doubts or fears in putting your future in——­”

“No, no, mamma, not the slightest,” and the fair face grew radiant.

As Rose passed out at one door, Miss Stanhope following, with a parting injunction to the bride not to grow frightened or nervous, Mr. Dinsmore entered by another.

He stood a moment silently gazing upon his lovely daughter; then a slight motion of his hand sent all others from the room, the bridesmaids passing into the boudoir, where the groom and his attendants were already assembled, the tirewomen vanishing by a door on the opposite side.

“My darling!” murmured the father, in low, half tremulous accents, putting his arm about the slender waist, “my beautiful darling! how can I give you to another?” and again and again his lips were pressed to hers in long, passionate kisses.

“Papa, please don’t make me cry,” she pleaded, the soft eyes lifted to his, filled almost to overflowing.

“No, no, I must not,” he said, hastily taking out his handkerchief and wiping away the tears before they fell.  “It is shamefully selfish in me to come and disturb your mind thus just now.”

“No, papa, no, no; I will not have you say that.  Thank you for coming.  It would have hurt me had you stayed away.  But you would not have things different now if you could? have no desire to.”

“No, daughter, no; yet, unreasonable as it is, the thought will come, bringing sadness with it, that to-night you resign my name, and my house ceases to be your only home.”

“Papa, I shall never resign the name dear to me because inherited from you:  I shall only add to it; your house shall always be one of my dear homes, and I shall be your own, own daughter, your own child, as truly as I ever have been.  Is it not so?”

“Yes, yes, my precious little comforter.”

“And you are not going to give me away—­ah, papa, I could never bear that any more than you; you are taking a partner in the concern,” she added with playful tenderness, smiling archly through gathering tears.