“The bride.”
A moment afterward, amidst still more cheering and cries of “God bless you, Miss Olivia!” the squire entered, with the bride on his arm.
There was an instantaneous movement toward them, and amidst the excited whispering they entered the vestry. She carried in her hand the bouquet he had sent; but the snow-like flowers were not whiter than her face, and she clung to her father’s arm with a clasp which seemed as if it could never be loosened.
With downcast eyes she stood for a moment, scarcely seeming to breathe, more like a lovely statue than a living woman; then Bartley Bradstone, who had been standing in the center of a group, came toward her.
“Have you got what I sent you?” he said in a low voice.
She raised her eyes and looked at him as if she scarcely heard him.
“Do you mean this?” she said, raising the bouquet.
“Yes, and inside it,” he said.
She looked at him as if she did not yet understand, and, taking the flowers from her hand, he parted them and showed her an envelope lying half hidden in their midst.
“You did not examine it very closely,” he whispered, with an attempt at a smile. “Open it; come this way.”