Her father, who had been on the look-out, took a little skiff and went down to meet the party. Alice stood on the shore, as she had done upon the day of Philip's first arrival. A soft rose glowed in either cheek, which was all the outward sign of the inward tumult as she saw her bridegroom sailing near enough to recognize and salute her. She saw in the boat Philip, the minister, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, and a young lady whom she had never met, and a strange young gentleman.
It was the proudest moment of Philip's life when that young lady turned and grasped his arm, exclaiming in a low voice:
"I don't wonder you refused me, cousin Philip. I did not know such beings existed except in poetry and painting."
Pallas, standing in the door, in an extra fine turban and the new dress sent for the occasion, thought her pickaninny did credit to her "broughten' up," as she saw the manner, quiet, modest, but filled with peculiar grace, with which Alice received her guests.
"Alice," said Philip, placing the fair hand of the proud stranger in hers; "this is my cousin Virginia."
"I have come to wish you joy, Alice," said Virginia, kissing her cheek lightly, and smiling in a sad, cold kind of way.
Her mourning attire, and the evident melancholy of her manner, touched the affectionate heart of her hostess, who returned her kiss with interest.
"For de law's sake, Saturn, come here quick—quick! Who be dat comin' up de walk wid masser and de comp'ny? Ef dat ain't little Virginny Moore, growed up, who is it?"
"It's Virginny, sure 'nuff!" ejaculated her husband.