"Not?—you said yesterday you had been too happy."
"To remember happiness is not to be happy, Fanny."
"That's true—and—"
Fanny stopped; and, as she bent over the tomb, musing, Vaudemont, willing to leave her undisturbed, and feeling bitterly how little his conscience could vindicate, though it might find palliation for, the dark man who slept not there—retired a few paces.
At this time the new-married pair, with their witnesses, the clergyman, &c., came from the vestry, and crossed the path. Fanny, as she turned from the tomb, saw them, and stood still, looking earnestly at the bride.
"What a lovely face!" said the mother. "Is it—yes it is—the poor idiot girl."
"Ah!" said the bridegroom, tenderly, "and she, Mary, beautiful as she is, she can never make another as happy as you have made me."
Vaudemont heard, and his heart felt sad. "Poor Fanny!—And yet, but for that affliction—I might have loved her, ere I met the fatal face of the daughter of my foe!" And with a deep compassion, an inexpressible and holy fondness, he moved to Fanny.
"Come, my child; now let us go home."
"Stay," said Fanny—"you forget." And she went to strew the flowers still left over Catherine's grave.