The church was already crowded as he stepped from the sanctuary, clad in rich white vestments--a present from Mark. Leaning on the arm of the minister, Ruth came slowly up the aisle, her filmy lace veil flowing softly around her and far down over the delicate satin of her sweeping train. As they neared the altar where Monsignore stood waiting, her maids, friends who had come hurriedly from England, stepped aside and Mark took his stand at her right. Her small hand trembled in his as the words of the nuptial service were pronounced, but her eyes spoke volumes of love and trust. Then each sought a prie-dieu and knelt to pray, while the service went on and from the choir rang the beautiful tones of the Messe Solennelle. The voices softened with the Agnus Dei, then faded into silence. Together the bride and groom approached the linen cloth held by the surpliced altar boys, and together they received the greatest of sacraments, then returned to their prie-dieux.
The service over, Mark arose and joined his wife. Slowly the bridal party went down the aisle and out to the waiting car which bore them swiftly to Killimaga. When the time came to part, Monsignore and his guests accompanied Baron Griffin and his bride to the train, then once more sought the quiet of the ivy-clad rectory.
But even the most pleasant of days must end. The happy group broke up as the guests departed, and at last Monsignore sat alone before the blazing fire which Ann had builded in the study, for the chill of the autumn evening was in the air.
Mark and Ruth by this time were in Boston making ready to sail on the morrow. Ann had suggested a "cup of tay because you're tired, Monsignore," but Monsignore wanted to be alone with his thoughts and would have none of it. He wondered why he was not lonely, for he had dreaded the hours to follow his good-bye to Mark and Ruth. But lonely he was not, for he was happy. It seemed to him as if some mysterious and forbidding gates had been suddenly flung open, and a flood of happiness loosed upon him. His last guest of the day had been the Bishop, who had let all go before him that for an hour he might be alone with the friend who once had had all his love and all his trust. Now both love and trust were again his friend's, and the Bishop's pleasure was even greater than the priest's.
"I would gladly give you both cross and crozier if I could, my friend," His Lordship had said.