It seemed to Henry that never, not even in his first wedded rapture, had he loved his wife as he loved her that night.  He glanced at her, and she looked wonderful to him; in fact, there was in Sylvia’s face that night an element of wonder.  In it spirit was manifest, far above and crowning the flesh and its sordid needs.  Her shoulders, under the fine lace gown, were bent; her very heart was bent; but she saw the goal where she could lay her burden down.

The music began again.  People thronged around the bride and groom.  There were soft sounds of pleasant words, gentle laughs, and happy rejoinders.  Everybody smiled.  They witnessed happiness with perfect sympathy.  It cast upon them rosy reflections.  And yet every one bore, unseen or seen, the burden of his or her world upon straining shoulders.  The grand, pathetic tragedy inseparable from life, which Atlas symbolized, moved multiple at the marriage feast, and yet love would in the end sanctify it for them all.

THE END