Her beautiful face was transfigured, her eyes radiant, her lips glowing with the fervor of the deep devotion with which she spoke.
"I cannot feel as you do, Celeste," said Gipsy, turning restlessly. "I feel like one without a light, groping my way in the dark—like one who is blind, hastening to my own doom. I cannot look up; I can see into the dark grave, but no farther."
"Light will come yet, dear friend. Every cloud has its silver lining."
"Never for me. But, hark! What is that?"
Celeste arose, and went to the window.
"It is the carriages bringing more people. The parlors below are full. You must rise, and dress for your bridal, Gipsy."
"Would to heaven it were for my burial! I am so tired, Celeste. Must I get up?"
"Yes, dear Gipsy; they are waiting for you. I will dress you myself," said Celeste, as Gipsy, pale, wan, and spirituelle, arose from her couch, her little, slight figure smaller and slighter than ever.
Rapidly moved the nimble fingers of Celeste. The dancing dark locks fell in short, shining curls around the superb little head, making the pale face of the bride look paler still by contrast. Then Celeste went into her wardrobe and brought forth the jewels, the white vail, the orange blossoms, and the rich robes of white brocade, frosted with seed pearls, and laid them on the bed.
"What is that white dress for?" demanded Gipsy, abruptly, looking up from a reverie into which she had fallen.