but with far less dignity and depth of soul—without that indefinable grace, that keenly spirituel yet gentle charm, that ineffable power to attract and subjugate the heart—my heart at least. I looked at the bridegroom—it was Frederick Lawrence! I wiped away the cold drops that were trickling down my forehead, and stepped back as he approached; but his eye fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my appearance must have been.
"Is that you Markham?" said he, startled and confounded at the apparition—perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks.
"Yes, Lawrence—is that you?" I mustered the presence of mind to reply. He smiled and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of his identity; and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having concealed his good fortune so long.
"Allow me to introduce you to my bride," said he, endeavouring to hide his embarrass-
