He turned the door-handle softly and came in.
"I have come to see if the bride looks pretty," he said, veiling his emotion under an affectation of lightness.
"You are the only one who cares to know," she answered, with a ring of bitterness in her sweet voice.
He stood silent, surveying her with sad yet admiring eyes.
She wore the rich brocaded silk that her uncle had sent her a year ago from Paris, and which she had laughingly declared then should be her wedding-dress. Its rich shining folds trailed far behind her, and the soft folds of the bridal veil fell over it like a mist. Her wreath and the knots of flowers that looped up her dress were of natural orange blossoms, the gift of her lover. Their fragrance pervaded the room deliciously. She wore a magnificent set of diamonds, the bridal gift of Captain Ernscliffe.
Young, beautiful, elegantly attired, she made a picture on which the eyes might feast and never grow weary, and none would have guessed how heavy was the heart beating under the satin corsage, or that the fearful elements of a tragedy had been woven into that life that seemed yet in its earliest spring.
Her father looked at her a moment, then silently opened his arms, and she as silently glided into them, heedless that the bridal veil was disarranged as she laid her fair head down upon his breast.
"Papa," she murmured, with quivering lips, "you love me, you are kind to me in spite of—of—all."
"God bless you, my little daughter," he said, solemnly, and touched his lips lightly to her brow.
It was the first time he had kissed her since she had come back. He had forgiven her, and been kind to her, but the loving caresses that had been showered on the little Queenie who went away had never been given to the Queenie who returned. This silent, gentle kiss seemed to have all the solemnity of a farewell.