And so one sweet June morning, when the swathes and lines of new-mown hay lay in the crofts round Kirkby Stephen, and while the little rush-bearers were weaving their crowns for St. Peter's Day, and the hedges were thick with the pink and pearly bloom of brier roses, Mildred Heriot stood leaning on her husband's arm in St. Stephen's porch.
Merrily the worn old bells were pealing out, the sunlight streamed across the market-place, the churchyard paths, and the paved lanes, and the windows of the houses abutting on the churchyard, were crowded with sympathising faces.
Not young nor beautiful, save to those who loved her; yet as she stood there in her soft-eyed graciousness, many owned that they had never seen a sweeter-faced bride.
'My wife, is this an emblem of our future life?' whispered Dr. Heriot, as he led her proudly down the path, almost hidden by the roses her little scholars' hands had strewn; but Mildred's lip quivered, and the pressure of her hand on his arm only answered him.
'How had she deserved such happiness?' the humble soul was asking herself even at this supreme moment. Under her feet lay the fast-fading roses, but above and around spread the pure arc of central blue—the everlasting arms of a Father's providence about her everywhere. Before them was the gray old vicarage, now no longer her home, the soft violet hills circling round it; above it a heavy snow-white cloud drooped heavily, like a guardian angel in mid-air; roses, and sunlight, and God's heavenly blue.
'Oh, it is all so beautiful!—how is one to deserve such happiness?' she thought; and then it came to her that this was a free gift, a loan, a talent that the Father had given to be used for the Master's service, and the slight trembling passed away, and the beautiful serene eyes raised themselves to her husband's face with the meek trustfulness of old.
Mildred was not too much engrossed even in her happiness to notice that Olive held somewhat aloof from her through the day. Now and then she caught a glimpse of a weary, abstracted face. Just as she had finished her preparations for departure, and the travelling carriage had driven into the courtyard, she sent Ethel and Polly down on some pretext, and went in search of her favourite.
She found her in the lobby, sitting on the low window-seat, looking absently at the scene below her. The courtyard of the vicarage looked gay enough; the horses were champing their bits, and stamping on the beck gravel; the narrow strip of daisy turf was crowded with moving figures; Polly, in her pretty bridesmaid's dress, was talking to Roy; Ethel stood near them, with Richard and Hugh Marsden; Dr. Heriot was in the porch in earnest conversation with Mr. Lambert. Beyond lay the quiet churchyard, shimmering in the sunlight; the white, crosses gleamed here and there; the garlands of sweet-smelling flowers still strewed the paths.
'Dear Olive, are you waiting for me? I wanted just to say a last word or two;' and Mildred sat down beside her in her rich dress, and took the girl's listless hand in hers. 'Promise me, my child, that you will do the best for yourself and them.'
'It will be a poor best after you, Aunt Milly,' returned Olive, with a grateful glance at the dear face that had been her comfort so long. It touched her that even now she should be remembered; with an impulse that was rare with her she put her arms round Mildred, and laid her face on her shoulder. 'Aunt Milly, I never knew till to-day what you were to me—to all of us.'