“For myself, maybe, I do it—all for myself to make me happy, too, tonight.”
She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand and placed the chairs beside the beautifully set table.
“Dinner is all ready,” she announced cheerfully. “And shall I go now and leave you? Or will you let me serve your dinner first?”
A sudden panic seized the bride.
“Stay and serve the dinner, Ella, if you will,” she quickly answered.
Jim frowned, but seated himself in business-like fashion.
“All right; I'm ready for it, old girl!”
With soft tread and swift, deft touch, Ella served the dinner, standing prim and stiff and ghost-like behind Jim's chair between the courses.
The bride watched her, fascinated by the pallor of her haggard face and the queer suggestion of Death which her appearance made in spite of the background of flowers. She had dressed herself in a simple skirt and shirtwaist of spotless white. The material seemed to be draped on her tall figure, thin to emaciation. The chalk-like pallor of her face brought out with startling sharpness the deep, hollow caverns beneath her straight eyebrows. Her single eye shone unusually bright.
Gradually the grim impression grew that Death was hovering over her bridal feast—a foolish fancy which persisted in her highly-wrought nervous state. Yet the idea, once fixed, could not be crushed. In vain she used her will to bring her wandering mind back to the joyous present. Each time she lifted her eyes they rested upon the silent, white figure with its single eye piercing the depths of her soul.