“Showed what a good true-hearted fellow he was—sort of probationer, eh?”
Myra turned her head. She could not speak—only clung to the parent she was so soon to leave.
“Then good-bye to James Barron, alias Dale, and all his works, Myra. Oh, dear me! In a very short time it will be Mrs Malcolm Stratton, and I shall be all alone.”
“No, you will not, uncle,” said Edie, who had entered unobserved after letting off a fusillade of sobs outside the door, and her pretty grey eyes a little redder, “and you are not to talk like that to Myra; she wants comforting. Uncle will not be alone, dear, for I shall do all I can to make him happy.”
“Bah! A jade, a cheat, my dear. Don’t believe her,” cried the admiral merrily; “she has a strange Guest in her eye—Hotspur—Percy. Look at her.”
“Don’t, Myra dear. Kiss uncle and come back to your room,” and after a loving embrace between father and daughter the bridesmaid carried off the bride to the room where the travelling trunks lay ready packed, the bridal veil on a chair; and after the last touches had been given to the bride’s toilet, the cousins were left alone.
“Now, Myra darling, any more commands for me about uncle? We may not have another chance.”
“No, dear,” said the bride thoughtfully. “I could say nothing you will not think of for yourself. Don’t let him miss me, dear.”
“You know I will not. Bless you, pet; you happy darling, you’ve won the best husband in the world. But how funny it seems to have to go through all this again.”
“Hush, dear. Don’t—pray don’t talk about it.”