Her mother rustled in, clothed in her splendid wedding-garments. “Did you send for me, dear Marie?” she whispered.
“Yes, mother—I beg you to put on my myrtle-wreath.”
“How! have you no endearment for me?” she asked, smilingly. “Why do you say ‘you’ instead of ‘thou?’”
“It is better so, mother,” she coldly answered. “Will you adorn me with the bridal-wreath?”
“Willingly, my dear child; it is very beautiful and becoming.”
“Do you realize, mother, what you are doing? You place the wreath to consecrate me to an inconsolably unhappy life with the man that I hate and despise!”
“My dear child, I know that you think so to-day; but you will soon change, and find that wealth is a supportable misfortune.”
“Mother, one day you will recall these words. Crown me for the hated bridal. The sacrifice is prepared!”