* * * * * * *

As Mr. Hammond was not able to take the fatiguing journey North, and Edna would not permit any one else to perform her marriage ceremony, she sent Mr. Murray home without her, promising to come to the parsonage as early as possible.

Mr. and Mrs. Andrews were deeply pained by the intelligence of her approaching departure, and finally consented to accompany her on her journey.

The last day of the orphan’s sojourn in New York was spent at the quiet spot where Felix slept his last sleep; and it caused her keen grief to bid good-bye to his resting-place, which was almost as dear to her as the grave of her grandfather.  Their affection had been so warm, so sacred, that she clung fondly to his memory; and it was not until she reached the old village depot, where carriages were waiting for the party, that the shadow of that day entirely left her countenance.

In accordance with her own request, Edna did not see Mr. Murray again until the hour appointed for their marriage.

It was a bright, beautiful afternoon, warm with sunshine, when she permitted Mrs. Murray to lead her into the study where the party had assembled.  Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, Hattie, Huldah, and the white-haired pastor, were all there, and when Edna entered, Mr. Murray advanced to meet her, and received her hand from his mother.

The orphan’s eyes were bent to the floor, and never once lifted, even when the trembling voice of her beloved pastor pronounced her St. Elmo Murray’s wife.  The intense pallor of her face frightened Mrs. Andrews, who watched her with suspended breath, and once moved eagerly toward her.  Mr. Murray felt her lean more heavily against him during the ceremony; and, now turning to take her in his arms, he saw that her eyelashes had fallen on her cheeks—­she had lost all consciousness of what was passing.

Two hours elapsed before she recovered fully from the attack; and when the blood showed itself again in lips that were kissed so repeatedly, Mr. Murray lifted her from the sofa in the study, and passing his arm around her, said: 

“To-day I snap the fetters of your literary bondage.  There shall be no more books written!  No more study, no more toil, no more anxiety, no more heartaches!  And that dear public you love so well, must even help itself, and whistle for a new pet.  You belong solely to me now, and I shall take care of the life you have nearly destroyed in your inordinate ambition.  Come, the fresh air will revive you.”

They stood a moment under the honeysuckle arch over the parsonage gate, where the carriage was waiting to take them to Le Bocage, and Mr. Murray asked: 

“Are you strong enough to go to the church?”

“Yes, sir; the pain has all passed away.  I am perfectly well again.”

They crossed the street, and he took her in his arms and carried her up the steps, and into the grand, solemn church, where the soft, holy, violet light from the richly-tinted glass streamed over gilded organ-pipes and sculptured columns.