"I hardly know myself, mother dear; I am sure my whole heart rejoices in the happiness of my sister and Wallace; yet somehow the sight of it seems to deepen my own sorrow by contrast. I fear it is because I am selfish."
"I cannot think so," her mother said; "so do not harbor that thought, thus adding to your distress. Try to cast your care on the Lord, fully believing the inspired declaration that 'all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.' He is never for a moment unmindful of one of his children; he has a plan for each one, and suffers no real evil to befall them. 'Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him.'"
"Ah, mother!" Mildred said, smiling through her tears, "I am more and more convinced that all I need to make me perfectly happy is strong, unwavering faith in the wisdom and love of my heavenly Father; then I should rejoice to do and suffer all his holy will, never doubting that what he sends is the very best for me."
There was an additional cause for Mildred's depression just at this time—one felt in greater or less degree by all the Keiths—in the thought that this was the beginning of the inevitable breaking up of the dear family circle—the forming by one of their number of new ties, which must in some measure supplant the old—the tender loves of parents and children, brothers and sisters. Zillah was not going far away, and they did not fear to trust her to Wallace; but their home would no longer be hers, and another, in whose veins ran no drop of their blood, would henceforth be nearer and dearer to her than they.
Except the parents, perhaps no other felt this quite so keenly as Ada—the nearest in age and hitherto the room-mate and almost inseparable companion of the sister who was leaving them.
It was the morning of the wedding day; the ceremony was to take place in the evening, in the parlor of Mr. Keith's house, which the sisters were busily decorating for the occasion with spring flowers from the garden and the woods.
The supply was not sufficient, and the little boys were sent in search of more; the mother and Celestia Ann—who still lived with them, going home occasionally for a few weeks, but always returning and taking up her duties there with renewed satisfaction—were deep in the mysteries of cake-making and kindred arts; so when the door-bell rang Ada answered it.
Standing before the open door was a very pleasant-faced young man, whose dress and general appearance seemed to bespeak him a clergyman. He lifted his hat with a low bow, his face lighting up with a smile of recognition.
"Miss Mildred?" he said half inquiringly, as he held out his hand in cordial greeting.
"No, sir," returned Ada, giving him her hand, but with a slightly puzzled look; "I am Ada Keith."