The bridegroom was very tall, and this gave to Myra a look still more feminine and child-like, as she stood by his side.
“Are you ready, dearest?” he said, bending gently over her.
She gave a faint start, and lifted her large brown eyes to his with a smile of such deep love and holy trust, as seldom looks up from a soul merely human. That smile was answer enough. The next moment they stood within the broad light that flooded the drawing-room. A few words—a few murmured blessings—perchance a few tears—for the tears of affectionate regret are sometimes the brightest jewels that can be cast at the feet of a bride—and then Myra Clark became a wife.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Pain! pain! art thou wrestling here with man,
For the broken gold of his wasted span?
Art thou straining thy rock on his tortured nerve,
Till his firmest hopes from their anchor swerve,
Till the burning tears from his eyeballs flow,
And his manhood yields in a cry of woe?