Before starting to church that morning his father called him into the library for a private interview, and lectured him as if he had been a lad of twenty-one, who was about to contract marriage—­lectured him on the duties of a husband, of the master of a household and the head of a family.

The arrival of Mr. Clarence from North End, and of Mr. Sylvan from West Point by the same train, to be present at the wedding, interrupted the bridegroom’s reflections.

“It is now nine o’clock, boys.  You have just time to get your breakfast comfortably and dress yourselves properly before we leave for the church.  So look sharp,” was the greeting of Mr. Fabian, as he shook hands with his brother and his nephew.

At ten o’clock the carriage containing Mr. Rockharrt, Mrs. Rothsay and Cadet Haught left the house for the church, which they entered by the central front door, from which they were marshaled up the center aisle to their seats in the right hand front pew.

At a quarter past ten the bridegroom, with his best man, Clarence Rockharrt, followed in another very handsome carriage.

They drove around to the side of the church, and passed in through the rector’s door to the vestry on the left of the chancel, where they awaited the arrival of the bride’s party, and through the open door of which they looked in upon the splendidly decorated and crowded church.  An affluence of rare exotic flowers everywhere.  The green-houses of the State capital and of three neighboring cities had been laid under contribution by Mr. Fabian, and had yielded up their sweetest treasures for this occasion.  Floral arches spanned the center aisle from side to side, all the way up from the door to the chancel; festoons of flowers were looped from the galleries on three sides of the church; wreaths of flowers were wound around the pillars from floor to ceiling; the railing around the chancel was covered with flowers; the pulpit and reading desk were hidden under flowers.  The pews were filled with the beauty, fashion, and aristocracy of the capital, and a splendid crowd they formed.  Every lady held a rich bouquet; every gentleman wore a rare boutonniere.

Mr. Fabian looked at his watch from moment to moment.  We have scarcely ever seen a more impatient bridegroom than Mr. Fabian Rockharrt.  But, then, childish disorders go hard with elderly folks.  Just as the clock struck eleven, with dramatic punctuality, the gentlemanly white-satin-badged ushers threw open the double doors, and the bride’s procession entered.  She wore a trained dress of rich white satin, with an overskirt, berthe and veil, all of duchess lace, looped, fastened and festooned here and there and everywhere with orange buds; and a magnificent set of diamonds, consisting of a coronet, necklace, ear-drops, brooch, and bracelets—­too much for the little creature—­lighting her up like fireworks as she passed under the blaze of the sunlit windows.  She carried in her white-gloved hand a bouquet of white wood violets, with her monogram in purple violets in the center.  She was leaning on the arm of her guardian, the chief justice, followed by eight bridesmaids.