“And do you feel so badly about going away, my dear?” said the great lady, looking at those visible signs of distress and feeling not a little flattered by her young cousin’s show of affection.  “We must have you down soon again,” and she patted Anna’s cheek and hurried her into the car, for Mrs. Tremont had a horror of scenes and signals warned her that Anna was on the verge of tears.

The locomotive whistled, the cars gave a jolt, and Anna Moore was launched on her tragic fate.  She never knew how the time passed after leaving Mrs. Tremont, till Sanderson joined her at the next station.  She felt as if her will power had deserted her, and she was dumbly obeying the behests of some unseen relentless force.  She looked at the strange faces about her, hopelessly.  Perhaps it was not too late—–­perhaps some kind motherly woman would tell her if she were doing right.  But they all looked so strange and forbidding, and while she turned the question over and over in her mind, the car stopped, the brakeman called the station and Lennox Sanderson got on.

She turned to him in her utter perplexity, forgetting he was the cause of it.

“My darling, how pale you are.  Are you ill?”

“Not ill, but——­” He would not let her finish, but reassured her by the tenderest of looks, the warmest of hand clasps, and the terrified girl began to lose the hunted feeling that she had.

They rode on for fully an hour.  Sanderson was perfectly self-possessed.  He might have been married every day in the year, for any difference it made in his demeanor.  He was perfectly composed, laughed and chatted as wittily as ever.  In time, Anna partook of his mood and laughed back.  She felt as if a weight had been lifted off her mind.  At last they stopped at a little station called Whiteford.  An old-fashioned carriage was waiting for them; they entered it and the driver, whipped up his horses.  A drive of a half mile brought them to an ideal white cottage surrounded by porches and hidden in a tangle of vines.  The door was opened for them by the Rev. John Langdon in person.  He seemed a preternaturally grave young man to Anna and his clerical attire was above reproach.  Any misgivings one might have had regarding him on the score of his youth, were more than counterbalanced by his almost supernatural gravity.

He apologized for the absence of his wife, saying she had been called away suddenly, owing to the illness of her mother.  His housekeeper and gardener would act as witnesses.  Sanderson hastily took Anna to one side and said:  “I forgot to tell you, darling, that I am going to be married by my two first names only, George Lennox.  It is just the same, but if the Sanderson got into any of those country marriage license papers, I should be afraid the governor would hear of it—­penalty of having a great name, you know,” he concluded gayly.  “Thought I had better mention it, as it would not do to have you surprised over your husband’s name.”