He turned and looked again at the great stone mansion, whose turrets were dimly outlined against the sky. And as he looked he saw a door on the rear porch open and a figure clad in a white, fleecy dress glide out upon the porch and walk slowly into the grounds.
"That is probably the bride," he muttered, with a harsh little laugh.
To his surprise, she crossed the lawn and made directly for the spot where he stood.
"I shall not be likely to get a good look at her unless the moon comes out," he thought.
He drew back into the shadow of the alders that skirted the brook. His bitter, vengeful thoughts were turned aside for a moment while watching the advancing figure.
"Why should my cousin have wealth, love, happiness, while I have to knock about here and there, getting my living as best I can, being always in hard luck and a mark for the arrows of relentless fate?" he soliloquized.
Nearer and nearer drew the slender, graceful figure.
Royal Ainsley was right. It was his cousin's wife.
She went on slowly over the greensward in the sweet night air, little dreaming what lay at the end of her path.