Almost sixteen months had passed since the dewless September

morning, when Mabel had gathered roses in the garden walks, and her

brother's return had shaken the dew with the bloom from her young

heart. It was the evening of Christmas-day, and the tide of wassail,

the blaze of yule, were high at Ridgeley. Without, the fall of snow

that had commenced at sundown, was waxing heavier and the wind

fiercer. In-doors, fires roared and crackled upon every hearth;

there was a stir of busy or merry life in every room. About the

spacious fire-place in the "baronial" hall was a wide semicircle of

young people, and before that in the parlor, a cluster of elders,

whose graver talk was enlivened, from time to time, by the peals of

laughter that tossed into jubilant surf the stream of the juniors'

converse.

Nearest the mantel, on the left wing of the line, sat the three

months' bride, Imogene Barksdale, placid, dove-eyed, and smiling as

of yore, very comely with her expression of satisfied prettiness

nobody called vanity, and bedecked in her "second day's dress" of

azure silk and her bridal ornaments. Her husband hovered on the

outside of the ring, now pulling the floating curls of a girl-cousin

(every third girl in the country was his cousin, once, twice, or

thrice-removed, and none resented the liberties he, as a married

man, was pleased to take), anon whispering in the ear of a bashful

maiden interrogatories as to har latest admirer or rumored

engagement; oftenest leaning upon the back of his wife's chair, a

listener to what was going on, his hand lightly touching her

lace-veiled shoulders, until her head gradually inclined against his

arm. They were a loving couple, and not shy of testifying their

consent to the world.

"They remind me irresistibly of a pair of plump babies sucking at

opposite ends of a stick of sugar candy!" Rosa Tazewell said aside

to the hostess, as the latter paused beside her on her way through

the hall to the parlor.

"The candy is very sweet!" replied Mrs. Aylett, charitably, but

laughing at the conceit--the low, musical laugh that was at once

girlish in its gleefulness, yet perfectly well-bred.

Mr. Aylett heard it from his stand on the parlor-rug, and sent a

quick glance in that direction. It was slow in returning to the

group surrounding him. He had married a beautiful woman--so said

everybody--and a fascinating, as even everybody's wife did not

dispute. In his sight, she was simply and entirely worthy of the

distinction he had bestowed upon her; an adornment to Ridgeley and

his name. From their wedding-day, his deportment toward her had been

the same as it was to-night--attentive, but never officious;

deferential, yet far removed from servility; a manner that, without

approximating uxoriousness, yet impressed the spectator with the

conviction that she was with him first and dearest among women; a

partner of whom, if that were possible, he was more proud than

fond--and of the depth and reality of his affection there could be

no question.




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