The coach reached the western terminus of the bridge, passed quietly through it, and then rapidly increasing its speed, thundered onward over the rough old turnpike road.
Trees, houses, farms, forests flew past as the coach whirled onward up hill and down dale, until it reached Alexandria.
It drew up in the midst of the old town, before its office, took the address of the single passenger for whom it was directed to call, changed horses for a fresh start, and swung around into Duke street.
What was it here that suddenly aroused Drusilla from her painful absorption in her own troubled thoughts?
The coach drew up before the house in which she had been married!
She let down her veil, and, growing rapidly red and pale with excitement, looked out.
Soon the door opened, and the young minister—the very one who had performed her marriage ceremony—came out, carpet bag in hand, and shawl over his shoulders.
“You see I am quite punctual,” he said, speaking to the gentleman passenger on top.
The other did not reply, but probably made a sign, for the minister nodded pleasantly, saying:
“Yes. I am coming up there to sit by you. Besides, the night is so fine it would be a pity to box one’s self up inside.”