“My soul! there is Rothsay on the pier, waving his hand to us!” exclaimed the Iron King, as he led his little wife down the gang plank, while Cora came on behind them.

Yes; there was Rule, his tall figure towering above the crowd on the pier, his rugged face beaming with delight, his hand waving welcome to the returning voyagers.  He received his friends as they stepped upon the pier.  He shook hands warmly with Mrs. Rockharrt, heartily with the Iron King, and then, behind them, with Cora, and before Cora knew what was coming she was folded in the arms and to the faithful breast of her life-long lover—­only for a moment; and then he drew her arm within his own and led her on after the elder couple, whispering: 

“Dear, this is the happiest day I have ever seen as yet, but a happier one is coming—­soon, I hope.  Dear, how soon shall it be?”

“You must ask my grandparents, Rule.  Their judgment and their convenience must be consulted,” she answered in a low, steady tone.

She had no thought now of breaking her engagement with Rule, though her heart seemed breaking.  She still loved that rugged man with the sisterly affection she had always felt for him, and which, in her ignorance of life and self, she had mistaken for a warmer sentiment, and resolved, in wedding him, to do her whole duty by him for so long as she should live, and she hoped and believed that that would not be very long.

Rothsay led the way to a carriage.  When all were seated in this, the old man leant toward the young one, and said: 

“Well, I haven’t had a chance to ask you yet.  The election is over.  How did it go?  Who is their man?”

“They chose me,” answered Rothsay, simply.

Cora Haught’s bosom was wrung by hopeless passion and piercing remorse.

Yet she tried to do her whole duty.

“If it craze or kill me I will wed Rule, and he shall never know what it costs me to keep my word,” she said to herself, as she lay sleepless and restless in her bed on the night before her wedding morn.  “Yes; I will do my duty and keep my secret even unto death.”

“‘Even unto death!’ but unto whose death?” whispered a voice close to her ear—­a voice clear, distinct, penetrating.

Cora started and opened her eyes.  No one was near her.  She sat up in bed, and looked around the apartment.  The night taper, standing on the hearth, burned low.  The dimly lighted room was vacant of any human being except herself.

“I have been dreaming,” she said, and she laid down and tried to compose herself to sleep again.  In vain!  Memories of the near past, dread of the nearer future, contended in her soul, filling her with discord.  When Cora arose on her wedding morning, she said to herself: 

“Yes, this day I am going to marry Rule, dear, loving, faithful, hard-working, self-denying Rule!  A monarch among men, if greatness of soul could make a monarch.  In that sense no woman, peeress or princess, ever made a prouder match.  May Heaven make me worthier of him!  May Heaven help me to be a true, good wife to him!”