"God grant it! God grant it!" murmured the old woman as she rose. "Now comes the veil and the wreath, but I am too clumsy for that, Miss Gertrude--but, ah, here is Mrs. Fredericks."
Jenny entered through the young girl's sitting-room. She wore a dress of deep black transparent crêpe, and a white camellia rested on the soft light braids. She was deathly pale and her eyes were red with weeping.
"I will help you, Gertrude," she said, languidly, beginning to fasten the veil on her sister's brown hair. "Do you remember how you put on my wreath, Gertrude? Ah, if one could only know at such a time what dreadful grief was coming!"
"Jenny," entreated Gertrude, "don't give yourself up to your grief so. When I came down when Walter died, and Arthur was holding you so tenderly in his arms I thought what great comfort you had in each other. That is after all the greatest happiness, when two people can stand by each other, in sorrow and trial."
"Oh," said Jenny, her lip curling disdainfully; "I assure you Arthur is half-comforted already. He can talk of other things, he can eat and drink and go to business, he can even play euchre. Wonderful happiness it is indeed!"
"Ah, Jenny, you cannot expect him to feel the grief that a mother does, he--"
"Oh, you will find it out too," interrupted the young wife. "Men are all selfish."
Gertrude rose suddenly from her chair. She was silent, but her eyes rested reproachfully on her sister as if to say, "Is that the blessing you give me to take with me?"
But her lips said only, "Not all, I know better."
Jenny stood in some embarrassment. "I must go down to Arthur now or he will never be ready at the right time, and then it will be time for me to come up to receive the guests."