May was in a state of great excitement all the day after receiving John Temple’s letter. She was so restless she could not stay in the house; but it was evidently a happy restlessness. She went out to shop, and bought all sorts of pretty knick-knacks, and sorely troubled Miss Eliza’s mind by her extravagance.

“Never mind, it won’t matter now,” she said, sweetly, when Miss Eliza ventured to remonstrate, and there was such a glad look in her eyes as she spoke that her gentle companion had not the heart to say anything further.

The truth was that John Temple was not only coming, but in his letter he had told May that they would be married at once.

“I am weary of waiting, my Mayflower,” he had written, “and am longing for the sight of your dear face and the touch of your dear hand.”

Sweet, welcome words that thrilled through the girl’s heart, making the world all sunshine! May had always trusted John, but she had felt that in her position waiting was very trying, though she had never for a moment blamed him for the delay. She judged his love by hers; his heart by her own. But now it was all over—the anxiety, the uncertainty. John would be with her to-morrow, and her life henceforth would be full of joy.

She counted the hours until they should meet, as many a fond, foolish woman has counted them before. She brought out her prettiest frocks; she smiled at her fair reflection in the glass.

“How will he think I am looking?” she thought, and she wondered, too, if she would see any change in him.

The two quiet sisters down-stairs looked at each other with sympathetic sighs. Miss Margaret had never told Miss Eliza about her conversation with Ralph Webster but somehow Miss Eliza had vaguely understood that some such conversation had taken place. She, too, had been afraid for the son of their love; she, too, had watched Ralph’s dark eyes follow the slender girlish form, whose heart was now beating so joyously at the prospect of meeting another man!

But they did not speak of it. Miss Webster had said quietly to Miss Eliza during the morning, “Mr. John Temple is coming to-morrow,” and therefore Miss Eliza concluded that May’s happy looks and excitement were somehow connected with this event.

She, indeed, made no secret of this, and when the day actually came she went out the very first thing in the morning, and returned laden with flowers, with which she proceeded to fill Miss Webster’s blue china vases all over the house.

“My dear, you have quite a flower show,” said Miss Webster, kindly, looking at the glowing blossoms.

“He is very fond of flowers,” answered May, with a soft happy blush, going on with her task; and Miss Webster turned away thinking sadly enough of Ralph Webster at some Alpine village among the snow.

But May Churchill never thought of him. Her whole mind was taken up with one idea. “John is coming to-day; John is coming!”

The thought made her go singing about the house; it deepened the lovely rose-bloom on her cheeks, and made her eyes shine like stars.

“She is beautiful,” whispered Aunt Eliza to Aunt Margaret, when the girl came down dressed for dinner in her white frock, with moss-rose buds at her breast and throat.

John Temple was expected a little before seven o’clock, and a little after seven o’clock he came. We may be sure May was waiting and watching for him, and when she heard a cab stop before the house door she ran into the hall to welcome him. And a moment or two later John came in, and the two clasped each other’s hands in silence, and then John drew May into the dining-room, the door of which was standing open, and clasped her to his breast.

“My own love, my own dear love,” he whispered, with his lips on hers.

But presently May drew back.

“Let me look at you,” she said softly, raising her beautiful eyes and looking into his gray ones. She had pictured his face so often in her day-dreams; pictured it looking down at her as it was looking now, full of love, and with a little sigh of rest the next moment her white eyelids fell.

“You are not changed,” she murmured below her breath.

“Did I not tell you I would never change?” answered John Temple. “My Mayflower, I will not change.”

By this time Miss Margaret in the kitchen was getting exceedingly uneasy that her turbot would be over-boiled and her ducks over-roasted. She therefore put up her head from the kitchen stairs and called to Aunt Eliza, who speedily came to her.

“Eliza, if without disturbing them, you know, dear, do you think you could give them to understand that dinner is ready?” she whispered.

Aunt Eliza nodded her head.

“What shall I do?” she said. “Knock at the door, or cough?”

“To knock would be too marked, I think,” answered Aunt Margaret. “I should just give a little cough, or a gentle sneeze outside.”

It is all very well to be told to sneeze when you do not want to do so, but it is almost an impossibility. Miss Eliza, however, proceeded to the dining-room door and tried to do her best. She, in fact, emitted a most extraordinary sound which was intended to represent a sneeze. But at all events it had the intended effect. The lovers started apart as if they had been shot.

“What is that?” said May.

“Sounds as if someone was choking outside,” answered John; “shall I see what it is?”

He accordingly opened the door, and there stood poor Aunt Eliza in the very act of preparing to attempt to sneeze again!

“Miss Eliza,” said John, warmly grasping her hand, “and how are you?”

For a few moments Miss Eliza could make no answer. She gasped for breath; she struggled to regain her ordinary expression.

“And how is Miss Webster?” went on John, kindly. “I am very pleased indeed to see you both again, and thank you very much for taking such care of my dear little girl.”

He looked back at May tenderly as he spoke, and May smiled and went forward. By this time Miss Eliza had partly recovered her speech.

“My dear,” she said, addressing May in a slightly choking voice, “if—if Mr. John Temple—is ready—dinner is.” And then a violent fit of coughing interrupted her utterance.

“John, you have forgotten to take off your overcoat!” said May, with a little laugh.

“So I have,” answered John, going out into the hall to remove it; and when he went back into the room he once more shook Miss Eliza’s kind hand.

“She looks very well,” he said, with a smile, and a glance at May.

“Sweetly pretty,” answered Miss Eliza, with a little gentle sigh.

Then presently Miss Webster appeared, followed by her parlor maid, with the dinner. Everything was well cooked, to Miss Webster’s great satisfaction, and John Temple did fair justice to her good things. May, however, could not eat. “I am too happy,” she was thinking, as time after time she raised her eyes shyly to John’s good-looking face.

Then, when dinner was over and the ladies were about to retire to the drawing-room, John laid a detaining hand on Miss Webster’s arm.

“Can I have a few words alone with you?” he said.

“Oh! yes, certainly,” answered Miss Webster, nervously.

By this time Aunt Eliza and May Churchill had left the room, for they also had heard John Temple’s request, and Miss Webster having resumed her chair, John drew his close to her.

“It’s about May Churchill, Miss Webster, that I want to speak to you,” he began. “I do not know whether you have guessed the truth, but May and I are engaged, and are going to be married immediately.”

“I thought there must be something—” answered Miss Webster, and then she paused.

“We are going to be married at once,” continued John, speaking as though he had planned beforehand what to say, “but I am sorry to tell you our marriage for the present must be a secret one. My uncle, Mr. Temple of Woodlea, is an old-fashioned man, with many class prejudices, and May is not what he would consider, nay does consider, exactly in my position of life. Her father, in truth, is a tenant-farmer, one of my uncle’s tenants, and he never would give his consent to our marriage. Her young brothers also, unfortunately, played in the game of football when poor young Phil Temple was killed, and Mrs. Temple, my uncle’s wife, has an extraordinary prejudice on this account against the whole family. Thus you see it would never do for me, during my uncle’s life, to marry May openly.”

“Does she know this?” asked Miss Webster, quickly, her delicate complexion flushing as she spoke.

“Certainly she knows it; knows that only on these conditions we could be married—do you understand, dear Miss Webster? I admit I deceived you; I called May my cousin, and she is not my cousin, but I could not explain all this to you at the time, and my object was naturally to get a respectable home for May until I could marry her; and I knew she would have this with you, and so will you forgive me?”

“And her parents?” asked Miss Webster, moving her hands uneasily.

“Her mother is dead, and her father recently married again, and his new wife has made May’s home life wretched since she has been at Woodside. She is a vulgar person, I believe, and, moreover, she has taken into her head that May ought to marry a brutal young man who lives in those parts, and who very narrowly escaped being tried for murder lately. He certainly behaved disgracefully to a poor girl he had treated most cruelly, and who either shot herself, or whom he shot. At all events, this Henderson is a person not fit to speak to May. Yet this Mrs. Churchill pestered her continually about him, and finally May determined to leave her home to escape her persecution.”

“And—do they know about—you?”

“Not a word, nor must they know. May left a letter for her father to tell him she was leaving because she could not get on with her stepmother, and this is enough explanation for her to give. The rest is between ourselves. I mean to marry May at once, and take her abroad for a short time, and then, Miss Webster, I have a proposition to make to you, to which I most earnestly hope you will agree. I can not acknowledge my marriage to May for the present, and she is too young to live alone. So will you allow her to remain an inmate of your house? Of course, she shall have a handsome income, and I know she is fond of both you and Miss Eliza, and my mind would be at rest regarding her if I knew she was under your kindly care.”

Miss Webster had given a sort of gasping sigh more than once during this long speech of John’s. In fact, it nearly took her breath away. A secret marriage! The bride to be left with them! No wonder gentle Miss Webster’s soft gray hair nearly rose on end at the idea. It was so completely against her ideas of propriety and against dear Eliza’s also. Miss Webster, in fact, did not know what to say; she fidgeted in her chair; her thin fingers moved nervously; her whole appearance denoted her mental distress.

“I know all this must be a little startling to you,” continued John Temple, “but just consider the circumstances, and how the poor girl was actually compelled to fly from home to escape a hateful marriage that was being forced on her! We—May and I—love each other very dearly, and she is content to accept this sacrifice for my sake, and she shall never regret it. My whole future life shall be devoted to her; and at all events, Miss Webster, even if you won’t help us, I am sure our secret will be quite safe with you?”

“Your secret will be quite safe,” replied Miss Webster, still rather stiffly. She was thinking she was a clergyman’s daughter, and wondering what would be her duty under such extraordinary circumstances. And then suddenly the remembrance of Ralph Webster flashed across her mind, and her faded cheeks colored.

“I—I think this arrangement would hardly be suitable, Mr. Temple,” she said, with hesitation and downcast eyes. “You see, our nephew, Mr. Ralph Webster, almost lives with us, and—and of course, though May—I beg your pardon, the future Mrs. John Temple—is a dear sweet girl, and both of us, my sister Eliza and myself, are, if you will excuse me saying so, very fond of her. Still, though Ralph has rooms in the Temple, he looks on this as his home; and, indeed, it ought to be, as he is our poor dear brother’s only child, but still, as he is a young man—”

John Temple laughed softly as Miss Webster concluded her confused protest against his proposal that May should live with them.

“I shall not be jealous,” he said; “your nephew, I presume, is only a very young man?”

“Oh, dear, no! Our poor dear brother was very much older than we are, you know. Ralph is past thirty.”

“Past thirty?” replied John Temple, thoughtfully. “Still,” he added, and he smiled as he spoke, “I should not be afraid of May.”

“It is not of May—” began Miss Webster, and then she paused, painfully confused.

“Well,” said John, rising, “talk it over with Miss Eliza. I will send her to you, and go and talk to May.”

“That will be best,” answered Miss Webster, relieved, and a few moments later Miss Eliza entered the room, and Miss Webster in an awe-struck whisper told her news.

“It would never do; you see it would never do,” she concluded.

“It would never do,” echoed Aunt Eliza, dolefully, shaking her head and sighing dismally.

“It would be unjust—to Ralph,” said Miss Webster.

“Terribly unjust,” repeated Aunt Eliza, heaving another sigh.

“Then we must agree to decline. I am sure she is a sweet girl, and if there was anything I could do for her I would do it, and you, too, Eliza, but we must consider—others.”

“Yes, dear,” and after this the sisters kissed each other, and then went together nervously toward the drawing-room. But when they entered the room nothing was said of their consultation. John Temple was sitting by May on a couch, looking perfectly content, and May was smiling and looking perfectly happy. John rose with a pleasant smile as the two trembling old ladies appeared.

“Ah, Miss Webster, and Miss Eliza,” he said, “come and help May here to decide a most knotty question. Where will you sit? Now, Miss Webster, let us have your opinion first. What should May wear to be married in?”

“White, I should think,” answered Miss Webster, somewhat feebly.

“There, John, I told you so!” cried May, triumphantly.

John made an awry face.

“You see, Miss Webster, to what I have to get accustomed,” he said.

“But John, you know you like me in white best,” continued May; “at least you always said so.”

“So I do, but as we are going on our travels straight from the church, I thought something dark would be more useful. However, of course, have your own way, and to-morrow these ladies perhaps will go out and help us to buy a very smart traveling cloak and whatever else you require. We are going direct to Paris, Miss Webster, as this young lady has never seen that lively city.”

John talked on thus until he rose to take his leave for the night, but even then he said nothing of his proposition to Miss Webster. But the next morning he did.

“Have you thought over what I said last night, Miss Webster?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Temple,” answered Miss Webster, falteringly, “and we think—sister Eliza and I think—that it would be better if—the future Mrs. John Temple did not live in this house—”

“That is settled then,” said John Temple, calmly; “but perhaps you will kindly help May to find a suitable house?”

“Only too delighted to do anything for such a sweet young creature,” replied kind Miss Webster; “I assure you, Mr. Temple; both sister Eliza and myself have the greatest regard for her.”

“Thanks, very much, and now we must see about the preparations for the marriage at once. She must be married in this parish, of course; so will you kindly tell me who your parson is, and give me an introduction to him?”

After this the preparations for the marriage went on as quickly as possible, both Miss Webster and Miss Eliza assisting in every way that they could. But we will let Miss Webster describe that event in a letter which she addressed to her nephew, Ralph Webster, a few hours after it was over. She wrote this letter with a sad heart somehow, but she little guessed of the bitter and intense pain with which it was received.

“My Dearest Ralph: I have some strange news for you,” one midday Ralph Webster read at the Swiss chalet where he was staying. “Our young guest, May Churchill, was married this morning to Mr. John Temple, and both sister Eliza and myself were present at the ceremony. But what I most regret to have to tell you is that this marriage is a secret one, and neither Mr. Temple’s relatives nor her own have the slightest knowledge of it. We have indeed promised to reveal it to no one, but we make an exception in your case, as you are our near and dear relation, and also because we are quite certain we can trust this secret with you.

“The reasons for secrecy are, Mr. John Temple informed us, that his uncle, Mr. Temple, of whom he is the heir, would not hear of the marriage, and also that May’s parents, her father and stepmother, desired her greatly to marry another gentleman who lives in their neighborhood, and who, by Mr. John Temple’s account, is of bad character. May seemed very happy, and looked sweetly pretty during the marriage service, which was performed by our vicar, Mr. Mold, and we can only pray and hope that every blessing and happiness may attend the young couple who are beginning life together under what, to our poor human foresight, do not appear very fortunate circumstances.

“They started immediately after the ceremony was over for Paris, but before leaving Mr. John Temple made, what we considered, rather a strange proposal to sister Eliza and myself, which was, that on their return to England, that Mrs. John Temple should come back to reside with us in this house, while he proceeded to his uncle’s residence. But after due consideration, sister Eliza and myself came to the conclusion that this arrangement was not desirable. But we have agreed to endeavor to find her a suitable house during their sojourn abroad.

“And now having told you my news, and with kindest love from sister Eliza and myself, I remain, my dearest Ralph, your ever affectionate aunt,

”Margaret Webster.”

“P. S.—We were exceedingly glad to learn from your letter that you were in good health, and enjoying the invigorating air of the mountains.

M. W.”

Ralph Webster read this long letter through, and his strong face grew a little gray-tinted as he did so. He had never realized until now what a terrible blow this marriage was to him; never dreamed that the girl’s face that he had seen a hundred times in his mental vision amid the glaciers and the snowdrifts had become so dear to him.

Now he knew that it was so, but he bore his pain bravely and silently. He went out from the chalet alone, down a rugged stony slope, with the snow deep on either side, and the green ice glistening at his feet. He was thinking of the woman he loved—now when he knew he loved her, when he knew she was utterly lost to him—with strange, even pathetic tenderness.

“I have not thought much of women nor love before,” he was reflecting. “She has been the only one,” and he drew his firm lips closer, “and the only one she shall remain.”