—­Meredith.

Ishmael awoke.  After a restless night, followed by an hour’t complete forgetfulness, that more nearly resembled the swoon of exhaustion than the sleep of health, Ishmael awoke to a new sense of wretchedness.

You who have suffered know what such awakenings are.  You have seen someone dearer than life die; but hours, days, or weeks of expectation have gradually prepared you for the last scene; and though you have seen the dear one die, and though you have wept yourself half blind and half dead, you have slept the sleep of utter oblivion, which is like death; but you have at last awakened and returned to consciousness to meet the shock of memory and the sense of sorrow a thousand times more overwhelming than the first blow of bereavement had been.

Or you have been for weeks looking forward to the parting of one whose presence is the very light of your days.  And in making preparations for that event the thought of coming separation has been somewhat dulled; but at last all is ready; the last night has come; you all separate and go to bed, with the mutual injunction to be up early in the morning for the sake of seeing “him”—­it may be some brave volunteer going to war—­off; after laying awake nearly all night you suddenly drop into utter forgetfulness of impending grief, and into some sweet dream of pleasantness and peace.  You awake with a start; the hour has come; the hour of parting; the hour of doom.

Yes, whatever the grief may be, it is in the hour of such awakenings we feel it most poignantly.

Thus it was with Ishmael.  The instant he awoke the spear of memory transfixed his soul.  He could have cried out in his agony.  It took all his manhood to control his pain.  He arose and dressed himself and offered up his morning worship and went to the breakfast room, resolved to pass through the day’s fiery ordeal, cost what it might.

Claudia was not at breakfast.  In fact, she seldom or never appeared at the breakfast table; and this morning of all mornings it was quite natural she should be absent.  But Mrs. Middleton and Bee, Judge Merlin, Mr. Middleton, Mr. Brudenell, Walter, and Ishmael were present.  It was in order that people should be merry on a marriage morning; but somehow or other that order was not followed.  Judge Merlin, Mrs. Middleton, and Bee were unusually grave and silent; Mr. Brudenell was always sad; Ishmael was no conventional talker, and therefore could not seem other than he was—­very serious.  It was quite in vain that Mr. Middleton and Walter tried to get up a little jesting and badinage.  And when the constraint of the breakfast table was over everyone felt relieved.

“Remember,” said Mrs. Middleton, with her hand upon the back of her chair, “that the carriages will be at the door at half-past ten; it is now half-past nine.”

“And that means that we have but an hour to get on our wedding garments,” said Walter.  “Bee, have you got my finery ready?”