"Heaven bless you, my bonnie bird," says a trembling voice.
It is an hour and a half later, and Lauraine, in her shimmering satin robe, and with her bridal wreath upon her brow, stands before a bent, aged figure, supporting itself on a crutch, looking with dim and most loving eyes at the beautiful vision.
"Ah," goes on the quavering old voice, "may long life and happiness be aye yours, my dearie. It's auld Nannie will pray for it every day she lives, though she never thoct to see you mated wi' sic a bridegroom, nor wearing a face so sad on your ain wedding morn. Ah! if Maister Keith were here the day he'd be carrying a sair heart in his breast, I'm thinking."
"Hush, nurse!" said the girl gently. "I can't stay a minute. I've only come to tell you some news. Master Keith is coming here—coming to-day; and if he calls when we are at—at church, I want you to see him, and—and tell him about this. Will you, nursie? And make it as pleasant as you can. Tell him that I am very happy ... Oh, nurse!—nurse!"
The brave clear voice gives way, a sob bursts from the girl, and, regardless of the beautiful dress, the costly lace, she throws herself at the old woman's feet, and burying her face in her lap, bursts into tears.
"Whist, whist, my lamb!" cries the old woman, terrified at such unexpected emotion. "What for are ye taking on in sic a way? There, dry your eyes, my bonnie bairn. You needn't greet on your wedding-day, surely; and, oh! if your leddy mither comes and sees that braw goon all sae crushed and crookit, what will she be saying? There, there—rest ye quiet now. What is it ye're greeting for? Ye tell't me but yester e'en ye were aye quite content wi' yersel'."
"Ah!" says the girl, rising to her feet, and dashing the tears away with a half-ashamed energy, "perhaps I did; but then, nursie, that was yesterday."
"Ye were always a queer bit bairn," says the old woman, looking proudly and fondly at her beautiful charge. "Heaven make yer life gang straight, my dearie. My heart misgies me sore for you the day, though I oughtn't to speak sae despondingly. Still I will e'en hope for the best, and pray for ye while there's aye a breath left in my auld body to do it."
"Aye, do," answers the girl softly, as she presses her fresh young lips to the withered cheek. "Who knows, nurse, I may need your prayers yet?"
"Dinna ye speak sae sadly, my bairn," says the old woman. "Keep up a brave heart, and aye trust in Providence. You're a braw bride, my dearie, and maybe he'll be a gude mon to ye, for didn't he swear to worship the verra ground ye walk on?"