Although Eugene Mallard tried his best to entertain Hildegarde's aunt as they rode along, it seemed to him an almost impossible undertaking. She stared at him too intently that he wondered what she was thinking of. He thought it might be as to whether he would make Hildegarde a good husband, and he wished with all his heart to set her doubts at rest on this point, so he began to talk of Hildegarde, and tell her how much he thought of her.

The more he spoke of her niece, the sterner Miss Fernly's face seemed to grow.

He was wondering to himself how long she would detain him, he longed so for to return to Hildegarde, who he knew was waiting for him with the utmost impatience.

Suddenly Miss Fernly turned to him.

"You say you would do anything for Hildegarde's good—for her future happiness?" she asked, slowly.

"Yes—certainly," he answered. "I would lay down my life for her. No sacrifice would be too great for me to make."

"You are sure of that?" she asked, quickly.

"There is no question of it," Hildegarde's lover answered, promptly. "To save her from a moment's pain, I would lay down twenty lives if I had them."

"Very well; I will soon put you to the test," thought Miss Fernly.

Suddenly the carriage came to a stop. To the young man's great surprise, he found, as he assisted Miss Fernly to alight, that they were in front of a small and unpretentious church.

"Step this way," she said, leading him round to the door of the parsonage.

He had heard that Miss Fernly was very religious; but her action now rather puzzled him. Still without a thought of what the outcome might be, he followed where she led.

She spoke hurriedly to the coachman, and with a bow, he drove quickly away.

"The minister has been called suddenly away to a sick person," said the girl who admitted them to the parsonage. "He has begged me to say that he would return within the hour."

The young man wondered what business she had with the parson; but he made no comment, but followed her into the parsonage. The reception room into which they were shown was dimly lighted. Miss Fernly seemed to be well acquainted there.

Mr. Mallard took the seat Miss Fernly indicated.

"I have something to say to you," she began, in a hard, set voice. "I shall break right into the subject at once. Your wedding with my niece is fixed for to-morrow night, is it not?"

"Yes," he said, wonderingly.

"Why should not your marriage take place to-night—here and now?" she asked, looking intently at him.

For an instant he almost believed that the good lady had taken leave of her senses. He stared at her in the most complete bewilderment.

In a slow and emphatic voice she repeated her words.

"My dear madame," he said, "I do not see how that could possibly be. You know it is not to be a quiet affair. Over five hundred invitations have been issued."

"You will be married to-night, and let to-morrow night take care of itself," said Miss Fernly, sternly.

Had Hildegarde sent her aunt to make this arrangement? He could hardly believe his own senses. But surely it must be so.

He remembered the twinkle in her eyes as she had said.

"You are to ride with auntie, she has something to say to you."

"I am so dumfounded, I do not know how to answer you," he declared.

"You will not refuse me?" she asked.

"Refuse you! How could I refuse a request in which my happiness is so much bound up?" he answered, eagerly.

"It is well!" said Miss Fernly. "Your bride is on the way here by this time."

"Is this idea one of your planning?" asked Hildegarde's lover, curiously.

"Yes," she answered, very quickly.

It seemed a very strange proceeding to him, but he then did not pretend to understand the ways of women. He was only too anxious to carry out Hildegarde's slightest wish. He was so deeply in love with her that he did not question the strangeness of her aunt's action.

Before he had time to think over the matter, two carriages drove up to the door from different directions. Out of one stepped the minister, and from the other a slender figure, robed in snowy white, and almost enveloped in a white tulle veil.

He would have sprung to meet her, but Miss Fernly held him back.

"Not yet," she said. "She will meet us at the altar; the minister will bring her in."

Miss Fernly seemed to be running this novel affair, and he did not suppose that it would be worth while to try to dissuade her, since she must have talked it over with Hildegarde.

He followed her into the dimly lighted church, and down the long aisle to the altar-rail. Only one light was lighted, which left all the corners of the great edifice in darkness and gloom.

He had naturally a great deal of nerve; but to save his life he could not help a feeling of awe coming over him.

Before he had time to say anything, he saw the minister in his clerical robes coming from an opposite direction with the bride-elect on his arm. His heart throbbed, every pulse quickened; a moment more, and they had advanced.

"My darling!" he cried, as he sprang forward and clasped the trembling girl in his arms.

She tried to speak, but the words died away in her throat. It seemed to Eugene Mallard that he was in a dream. Even the girl who stood by his side seemed scarcely real. The folds of the filmy veil almost concealed her.

"Are you ready?" asked the minister, opening the book.

"Yes," answered Eugene Mallard, promptly.

"Yes," said Miss Fernly, speaking for the bride-elect.

The marriage ceremony was begun. Then came the question solemnly, warningly, from the minister's lips: "If any one knows aught why this man or woman should not be united in holy wedlock, let him now speak, or forever hold his peace!"

There was an ominous silence. Miss Fernly trembled. She was doing a noble action in righting a terrible wrong, she told herself, and there was no response to the clergyman's appeal.

In a voice which seemed still more solemn, he pronounced the two before him man and wife.

The bridegroom caught the bride in his arms, and he laughed gayly to see how she trembled in his embrace.

"My wife!" he cried, straining her to his heart. "Sweet," he murmured in a voice just audible to his bride, "to be the lover of the girl you love, is bliss; but to be the husband of the girl you love, is heaven! Tell me, Hildegarde, are you not as happy as I am?"

A low cry broke from the white lips of the girl he held in his arms. The minister had stepped into the parsonage in response to a summons from one of the servants, and invited the newly wedded couple and Miss Fernly to follow him.

He was not surprised that they held back a moment. It seemed to be the custom with all new-married couples to loiter for a moment in the dim shadows of the old church. The critical moment of Miss Fernly's triumph had come. She had done a noble action, she told herself. But somehow she trembled at the thought of what Eugene Mallard would do when he discovered that the girl whom he had wedded was not the beautiful Hildegarde but the cruelly wronged Ida May.

The young husband had drawn his bride beneath the chandelier of the church, and all unmindful of Miss Fernly's presence, he declared, rapturously:

"I must have a kiss from the lips of my wife."

As he spoke he drew aside her veil. One glance at the face it had hidden—oh, so piteous to behold in its awful pallor! and a cry, surely the most bitter that ever broke from human lips, issued from Eugene Mallard's. His arms fell from the supple figure, and he drew back, crying hoarsely:

"You are not Hildegarde! Great God! what does this mean? Who are you?"

Miss Fernly stepped forward.

"I wonder that you ask such a question!" she cried, shrilly. "Look upon her, and behold for yourself the young girl you duped and deserted! Now, thank Heaven, she is your wedded wife!" she added, triumphantly. "I have helped her to right her wrongs!"

"But I never saw this young woman before!" cried Eugene Mallard, striking his forehead with his clinched hand. "There is some terrible mistake! Speak out!" he cried to the girl at his side, who was trembling like an aspen-leaf. "Who are you who has done this terrible deed?"

Like one dying, the hapless bride fell on her knees at Miss Fernly's feet.

"There is some terrible mistake!" she cried, wildly. "I—I did not discover it until he drew back my veil. He—is—not—the man!"

"Not the man?" repeated Miss Fernly, aghast, hardly believing that she had heard aright, her eyes almost starting from their sockets. "I—I do not understand!" she cried, recoiling from the girl. "Do you mean that the man you have just wedded, and the one to whom you told me was the cause of wrecking your life, is not one and the same?"

The girl shook her head, while Eugene Mallard looked from one to the other like one in a dream from which he was expecting to soon awake.

Miss Fernly caught her by the shoulder.

"What does it mean?" she cried, hoarsely. "You assured me that this man was the cause of all your trouble, and now you dare to tell me that he is not the one! And I—brought about this, making you his wife! It was a trick of yours, you shameless creature, to secure a husband for yourself. Quick! Be gone from this sacred edifice ere I strike you down at my feet, you most shameless outcast, you horrible creature!"

Ida May drew back in terror from the upraised hand.

"Hold!" cried Eugene Mallard, stepping between them. "No matter what this poor creature has done, she is, in the eyes of God and man, my wife!"

By a dexterous movement he had raised the poor girl from her knees, and had swung her out of the reach of the blow that had been meant for her. Despite his anguish, it aroused all the pity and chivalry in his nature to see how the poor thing clung to him in her terror.

"Save me from her wrath," she murmured, clinging to him with death-cold hands, and adding vehemently: "Believe me, it was all a horrible mistake! I saw your picture, and—and I mistook you for another. The church was so dimly lighted, I—I could not see, and I did not know the terrible mistake until—until it was too late! Oh, tell me, tell me, what can I do to undo the great wrong that I have done you?"