"That 'ere counterpin, darter," said the old woman, "I worked with these here old hands. Ain't it putty? I hope you'll sleep well here. There's a broken pane of glass, but I've put one of Frank's old hats in it, and I don't think you'll feel the draught. There used to be a good many rats here, but I don't think they'll trouble you now, for Frank's been a pizinin' of 'em."
Left alone, Julia threw herself into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears. Even Belmont had ceased to be attractive in her eyes—the stern privations that surrounded her banished all thoughts of love. The realities of life had cured her in one day of all her Quixotic notions.
"Well, Julia, how do you like poverty and love in a cottage?" asked Belmont, entering in his bridal dress.
"Not so well, sir, as you seem to like that borrowed suit," answered the bride, reddening with vexation.
"Very well; you shall suffer it no longer. My carriage awaits your orders at the door."
"Your carriage, indeed!"
"Yes, dearest, it waits but for you, to bear us to Belmont Hall, my lovely villa on the Hudson."
"And your mother?"
"I have no mother, alas! The old woman down stairs is an old servant of the family."
"Then you've been deceiving me, Frank—how wicked!"