Miss Hunsden—­taller, more stately, more beautiful than ever—­was very still and sad, this first anniversary of her father’s death.  Lady Kingsland, when she and Mildred called—­for they did, of course—­was rather impressed by the stately girl in mourning, whose fair, proud face and calm, gray eyes met hers so unflinchingly.  It was “Greek meets Greek” here; neither would yield an inch.

The wedding was to take place early in December—­Sir Everard would not wait, and Harrie seemed to have no will left but his.  Once she had feebly uttered some remonstrances, but he had imperatively cut her short.

So this young tyrant had everything his own way.  The preparations were hurried on with amazing haste; the day was named, the bride-maids and guests bidden.

Miss Hunsden’s young lady friends were few and far between, and Mildred Kingsland and the rector’s sister and twelve-year-old daughter were to comprise the whole list.

The wedding-day dawned—­a sullen, overcast, threatening December day.  A watery sun looked out of a lowering sky, and then retreated altogether, and a leaden dullness overspread the whole firmament.  An icy wind curdled your blood and tweaked your nose, and feathery snowflakes whirled drearily through the opaque gloom.

The church was full, and silks rustled and bright eyes flashed inquisitively, and people wondered who that tall, foreign-looking person beside my lady might be.

It was Sybilla Silver, gorgeous in golden silk, with her black eyes lighted with cruel, inward exultation, and who glared almost fiercely upon the beautiful bride.

My lady, magnificent in her superb disdain of all these childish proceedings, stood by and acknowledged in her heart of hearts that if beauty and grace be any excuse for folly, her son had those excuses.

Lovely as a vision, with her pure, pale, passionless face, her clear, sweet eyes, Harriet Hunsden swept up the aisle in her rich bridal robes, her floating lace, and virginal orange-blossoms.

The bridegroom’s eyes kindled with admiration and pride as he took his place by her side, he looking as noble and gallant a gentleman as England could boast.

It was over—­she was his wife!  They had registered their names, they drove back to the rectory, the congratulations offered, the breakfast eaten, the toast drunk.  She was upstairs dressing for her journey; the carriage and the bridegroom were waiting impatiently below.

Mrs. Green hovered about her with matronly solicitude, and at the last moment Harriet flung herself impetuously upon her neck and broke out into hysterical crying.

“Forgive me!” she sobbed.  “Oh, Mrs. Green, I never had a mother!”

Then she drew down her veil and ran out of the room before the good woman could speak.  Sir Everard was waiting in the hall.  He drew her hand under his arm and hurried her away.  Mrs. Green got down-stairs only in time to see her in the carriage.