Thus importuned, Morris quitted the house, just as Mark and Helen came slowly up, their faces happier, if possible, than his own, and telling of the great joy which had succeeded their dark night of sorrow.

* * * * *

“Come in here, Helen, I have something to show you,” Mrs. Banker said, after she had again embraced and wept over her long-lost son, whose return was not quite real yet, and leading her daughter-in-law to her bedroom, she showed her the elegant white silk which had been made for her just after her marriage, two years before, and which with careful forethought she had brought with her, as more suitable now for the wedding than Helen’s mourning weeds.

“I made the most of my time last night after receiving Mark’s telegram, and had it modernized somewhat,” she said.  “And I brought your pearls, for you know you will be most as much a bride as Katy, and I have a pride in seeing my son’s wife appropriately dressed.”

Far different were Helen’s feelings now, as she donned the elegant dress, from what they had been the first and only time she wore it.  Then the bridegroom was where danger and death lay thickly around his pathway, but now he was at her side, kissing her cheek where the roses were burning so brightly, and calling still deeper blushes to her face by his teasing observations and humorous ridicule of his own personal appearance.  Would she not feel ashamed of him, in his soiled, faded uniform?  And would she not cast longing glances at her handsome brother-in-law and the stylish Lieutenant Bob?  But Helen was proud of her husband’s uniform, as a badge of what he had suffered, and when the folds of her rich dress swept against it, she did not draw them away, but nestled closer to him, leaning upon his shoulder, and when no one was near, winding her soft arms about his neck, whispering:  “My darling Mark, I cannot make it real yet.”

Softly the night shadows fell around the farmhouse, and in the rooms below a rather mixed group was assembled—­all the elite of the town, with many of Aunt Betsy’s neighbors, and the doctor’s patients, who had come to see their loved physician married, rejoicing in his happiness, and glad that the mistress of Linwood was not to be a stranger, but the young girl who had grown up in their midst, and who, by suffering and sorrow, had been molded into a noble woman, worthy of Dr. Grant.  She was ready now for her second bridal, and she looked like some pure waxen figure in her dress of white, with no vestige of color in her face, and her great blue eyes shining with a brilliancy which made them almost black.  Occasionally, as her thoughts leaped backward over a period of almost six years, a tear trembled on her long eyelashes, but Morris, as often as he saw it, kissed it away, asking if she were sorry.

“Oh, no, not sorry that I am to be your wife,” she answered; “but it is not possible that I should forget entirely the roughness of the road which has led me to you.”