There was a silence of a few seconds, in which her hand lay in his, and their eyes rested on each other. Then Mrs. Herrick and the professor appeared.
"I believe," said Tredennis, "if you are going now, I will let you set out on your journey first. I should like to see—the last of you."
"But it isn't the last of me," said Bertha, "it is the first of me—the very first. And my heart is beating quite fast."
And she put her hand to the side of her slender white bodice, laughing a gay, sweet laugh, with a thrill of excitement in it. And then they went out to the carriage, and when Mrs. Herrick had been assisted in, Bertha stood for a moment on the pavement,—a bright, pure white figure, her flowers in her hand, the hall light shining upon her.
"Papa!" she called to the professor, who stood on the threshold, "I never asked you if you liked it—the dress, you know."
"Yes, child," said the professor. "Yes, child, I like—I like it."
And his voice shook a little, and he said nothing more. And then Bertha got into the carriage and it drove away into the darkness. And almost immediately after Tredennis found himself in his carriage, which drove away into the darkness, too—only, as he laid his head against the cushions and closed his eyes, he saw, just as he had seen a moment before, a bright, pure white figure standing upon the pavement, the night behind it, the great bouquet of white roses in its hand, and the light from the house streaming upon the radiant girl's face.