That evening several of her acquaintances called to see the

bridegroom-elect, whom, in Mrs. Remington's hearing, they pronounced

very fine looking and quite agreeable in manner; compliments which

tended in a measure to soothe her irritated feelings and quiet the

rapid beatings of her heart, which for hours after she retired to

rest would occasionally whisper to her that the path she was about

to tread was far from being strewn with flowers.

"He loves me, I know," she thought, "though his manner of showing it

is so different from Harry; but I shall become accustomed to that

after a while, and be very, very happy." And comforted with this

assurance she fell asleep, encircling within her arms the little

Maude, whose name had awakened bitter memories in the heart of him

who in an adjoining chamber battled with thoughts of the dark past,

which now on the eve of his second marriage passed in sad review

before his mind.

Memories there were of a gentle, pale-faced woman, who, when her

blue eyes were dim with coming death, had shudderingly turned away

from him, as if his presence brought her more of pain than joy.

Memories, too, there were of another--a peerlessly beautiful

creature who, ere he had sought the white-faced woman for his wife,

had trampled on his affections and spurned as a useless gift his

offered love. He hated her now, he thought; and the little black-

haired child, sleeping so sweetly in its mother's arms, was hateful

in his sight, because it bore that woman's name. One, two, three--

sounded the clock, and then he fell asleep, dreaming that underneath

the willows which grew in the churchyard, far off on Laurel Hill,

there were two graves instead of one; that in the house across the

common there was a sound of rioting and mirth, unusual in that

silent mansion. For she was there, the woman whom he had so madly

loved, and wherever she went crowds gathered about her as in the

olden time.

"Maude Glendower, why are you here?" he attempted to say, when a

clear, silvery voice aroused him from his sleep, and starting up, he

listened half in anger, half in disappointment, to the song which

little Maude Remington sang as she sat in the open door awaiting the

return of her mother, who had gone for the last time to see the

sunshine fall on Harry's grave.




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