Besides the persons we have mentioned, were a score of nice aged women in snowy caps and chintz dresses, looking the very pictures of contented old age, who whispered cosily together, and watched a door that led to the stairs with the greatest interest, as if some very important person was expected to enter from that way.
Their impatience was gratified at last; for a clergyman with flowing robes came sweeping through, escorted by Jacob Strong, who had been wandering about the dim vestibule during the last ten minutes. Directly after, the room opposite was flung open, and Robert Otis came forth, leading a fair young girl by the hand. There was something heavenly in the loveliness of that gentle bride, as the blush deepened and faded away beneath the gossamer sheen of her veil.
Jacob Strong rubbed his yellow gloves softly together, as he gazed upon her; and the rustle of Mrs. Gray's dress was absolutely eloquent of all the restless pride she felt in seeing the two beings she most loved united for ever.
Of all the persons present, Ada Leicester alone was sad. She remembered her own marriage, and the shadow of many a painful thought swept across her face, as the solemn benediction was uttered over her child.
When the ceremony was complete Florence arose, and quietly placing a folded paper in the lap of the bride, stole away, as if terrified by the strange eyes that followed her movement. Julia took up the paper, half unfolded it, and then, with a blush and a smile, placed it in the hand of her young husband. With that paper Florence had conveyed two thirds of her fine property to the daughter of William Leicester—the man who had swept every blossom from the pathway of her own life.
THE END.