Three months after the incidents related in our previous chapter a large and fashionable audience assembled, one bright day, in a certain church on Madison avenue to witness a marriage that had been anticipated with considerable interest and curiosity among the smart set.

Exactly at the last stroke of noon the bridal party passed down the central aisle.

It was composed of four ushers, as many bridesmaids a maid of honor and two stately, graceful figures in snow-white apparel.

One of these latter was a veiled bride, her tall, willowy figure clad in gleaming satin, her golden head crowned with natural orange blossoms, and she carried an exquisite bouquet of the same fragrant flowers in her ungloved hands—for the groom had forbidden the conventional white kids in this ceremony—while on her lovely face there was a light and sweetness which only perfect happiness could have painted there.

Her companion, a woman of regal presence and equally beautiful in her way, was clothed in costly white velvet, richly garnished with pearls and rare old point lace.

The fair bride and her attendant were no other than Isabel Stewart and her daughter.

"Who should give away my darling save her own mother?" she had questioned, with smiling but tremulous lips, when this matter was being discussed, together with other preparations for the wedding.

Edith was delighted with the idea, and thus it was carried out in the way described.

The party was met at the chancel by Roy, accompanied by his best man and the clergyman, where the ceremony was impressively performed, after which the happy couple led the way from the church with those sweetest strains of Mendelssohn beating their melodious rhythm upon their ears and joyful hearts.

It was an occasion for only smiles and gladness; but, away in a dim corner of that vast edifice, there sat a solitary figure, with bowed head and pale face, over which—as there fell upon his ears those solemn words, "till death us do part"—hot tears streamed like rain.

The figure was Gerald Goddard. He had read the announcement of Edith's marriage in the papers, and, with an irresistible yearning to see her in her bridal robes, he had stolen into the church with the crowd, and hidden himself where he could see without being seen.

But the scene was too much for him, for, as he watched that peerless woman and her beautiful daughter move down the aisle, and listened to the reverent responses of the young couple, there came to him, with terrible force, the consciousness that if he had been true to the same vows which he had once taken upon himself he need not now have been shut out of this happy scene, like some lost soul shut out of heaven.

But no one heeded him; and, when the ceremony was over, he slipped away as secretly as he had come, and no one dreamed that the father of the beautiful bride had been an unbidden guest at her wedding.

In giving Edith to Roy Mrs. Stewart had begged that she need not be separated from her newly recovered treasure—that for the present, at least, they would make their home with her—or, rather, that they would take the house, which was to be a part of Edith's dowry, and allow her to remain with them as their guest.

This they were only too glad to do; therefore, after a delightful wedding trip through the West, they came back to their elegant home, where, with every luxury at their command, the future seemed to promise unlimited happiness.

Poor Louis Raymond had failed very rapidly during the spring months; indeed, he was not even able to attend the marriage of the girl for whom he had formed a strong attachment, and who had bestowed upon him many gracious attentions and services that had greatly brightened his last days. He passed quietly away only a few weeks after their return to New York.

One day, a couple of months after her marriage, Edith was about to step into her carriage, on coming out of a store on Broadway, where she had been shopping, when she was startled by excited shouts and cries directly across the street from her.

Turning to see what had caused the commotion, she saw a heavily loaded team just toppling over, while a man, who had been in the act of crossing the street, was borne down under it, and, with a shriek which she never forgot, apparently crushed to death.

Sick and faint with horror, she crept into her carriage, and ordered her driver to get away from the dreadful scene as soon as possible.

That same evening, as she was looking over the Telegram, a low cry of astonishment broke from her, as she read the following paragraph:

"A sad accident occurred on Broadway this morning. A carelessly loaded team was overturned by its own top-heaviness as it was rounding the corner of Twenty-ninth street, crushing beneath its cruel weight the talented young sculptor, Emil Correlli. Both legs were broken, one in two places, and it is feared that he has suffered fatal internal injuries. He was taken in an unconscious state to the Roosevelt Hospital, where he now lies hovering between life and death. The surgeons have little hope of his recovery."

Edith was greatly shocked by the account, notwithstanding her aversion to the man.

She had not supposed that he was in the city, for Roy believed that he had left the country, rather than appear to defend himself against Giulia's claims, and to escape paying the damages the court awarded her, after proclaiming her his lawful wife.

The woman had since been supporting herself and her child by designing and making dainty costumes for children, a vocation to which she seemed especially adapted, and by which she was making a good living, through the recommendation of both Mrs. Stewart and Edith.

The day after the accident Roy, on his way home from his office, prompted by a feeling of humanity, went to the Roosevelt Hospital to inquire for the injured man.

The surgeon looked grave when he made known his errand.

"There is hardly a ray of hope for him," he remarked; "he is still unconscious. Do you know anything about him or his family?" he asked, with sudden interest.

"Yes, I have had some acquaintance with him," Roy returned.

"Do you know his wife?" the man pursued. "A woman came here last evening, claiming to be his wife, and insisting upon remaining by his bedside as long as he should live."

"Yes, he has a wife," the young man briefly returned, but deeply touched by this evidence of Giulia's devotion.

"Is she a dark, foreign-looking lady, of medium height, rather handsome, and with a slight accent in her speech?"

"That answers exactly to her description."

"I am glad to know it, for we have been in some doubt as to the propriety of allowing her to remain with our patient. We tried to make her leave him, last night, even threatening to have her forcibly removed; but she simply would not go, and is remarkably handy in assisting the nurse, while her self-control is simply wonderful."

Roy wrote a few lines on one of his cards, saying that if either he or Mrs. Bryant could be of any service at this trying time, she might be free to call upon them.

This he gave to the surgeon to hand to Giulia, and then went away.

The following evening the woman made her appearance in their home with her child, whom she begged them to care for "as long as Emil should live."

It could not be very long, she said, with streaming eyes. She loved him still, in spite of everything, and she must remain with him while he breathed.

Edith willingly received Ino, saying she would be glad to keep him as long as was necessary; then Giulia went immediately back to her sad vigils beside the man who had caused her nothing but sorrow and shame.

But Emil Correlli did not die.

Very slowly and painfully he came back to life—to an existence, rather, from which he would gladly have escaped when he realized what it was to be.

When he first awakened to consciousness it was to find a pale, patient woman beside him—one who met his sighs and moans with gentle sympathy, and who ministered tirelessly to his every need and comfort.

No other hand was so cool and soft upon his heated head, or so deft to arrange his covers and pillows; no voice was so gently modulated yet so invariably cheerful—no step so quick and light; and, though the querulous invalid often frowned upon her, and chided her sharply for imaginary remissness, she never wavered in her sweetness and gentleness.

Thus, little by little, the selfish man grew to appreciate her and to yearn for her presence, if she was forced to be out of his sight for even a few minutes at a time.

"She has saved your life—she has almost forced life upon you," the surgeon remarked to him one day, when, as he came to make his accustomed visit, Giulia slipped away for a moment of rest and a breath of fresh air.

The invalid frowned. It was not exactly pleasant to be told that he owed such a debt of gratitude to the woman he had wronged. He was too callous to experience very much of gratitude as yet. It was only when he was pronounced well enough to be moved, and informed that he must make arrangements to be cared for outside, in order to make room for more urgent cases, that he began to wonder how he should get along without his faithful nurse and to realize how dependent he was upon her.

He knew that he would be a cripple for life; his broken bones had knitted nicely, and his limbs would be as sound as ever, in time; but his spine had been injured, and he would never walk upright again—henceforth he would only be able to get about upon crutches.

How, then, could he live without some one to wait upon him and bear with him in his future state of helplessness?

"Where shall I go?" he questioned, querulously, when, later, he told Giulia that his removal had been ordered. "A hotel is the most dismal place in the world for a sick man."

"Emil, how would you like a home of your own?" Giulia gravely inquired.

The word "home" thrilled him strangely, making him think yearningly of his mother and the comforts of his childhood, and an irresistible longing took possession of him.

"A home!" he repeated, bitterly. "How on earth could I make a home for myself?"

"I will make it for you—I will go to take care of you in it, if you like," she quietly answered.

"You!" he exclaimed in surprise, while, with sudden discernment, he remarked a certain refined beauty in her face that he had never observed before.

Then he added, with a sullen glance at his useless limbs, a strange sense of shame creeping over him:

"Do you still care enough for me to take that trouble?"

"I am willing to do my duty, Emil," she gravely replied.

"Ha! you evade me!" he cried, sharply, and piqued by her answer. "Tell me truly, Giulia, do you still love me well enough to be willing to devote your life to such a misshapen wretch as I shall always be?"

The woman turned her face away from him, to hide the sudden light of hope that leaped into her eyes at his words, which she fancied had in them a note of appeal.

But she had been learning wisdom during her long weeks of service in the hospital—learning that anything, to be appreciated, must be hardly won; and so she answered as before, without betraying a sign of the eager desire that had taken root in her heart:

"I told you, Emil, that I was willing to do my duty. I bear your name—you are Ino's father—my proper place is in your home; and if you see fit to decide that we shall all live together under the same roof, I will do my utmost to make you comfortable, and your future as pleasant as possible. More than that I cannot promise—now."

"And you really mean this, Giulia?" he questioned, in a low tone.

"Yes, if my proposal meets with your approval, we can at least make the experiment. If it should not prove a success, we can easily abandon it whenever you choose."

He knew that he could not do without her—knew that she had become so essential to him that he was appalled at the mere thought of losing her, while the sound of that magic word "home," around which clustered everything that was comfortable and attractive, opened before him the promise of something better than he had ever yet known in life.

Let us slip over the six months following, to find this little family pleasantly settled in an elegant villa a few miles up the Hudson.

It is replete with every luxury that money can purchase.

The choicest in art of every description decorates its walls, and pleasant, sunny rooms, while in a spacious studio, opening out upon a wide lawn, may be seen numerous unfinished pieces of statuary, upon which the crippled but ambitious master of the house has already begun to work, although his strength will permit him to do but little at a time.

Giulia, or "Madame Correlli," as she is now known, is the presiding genius of this ideal spot, and she fills her place with both dignity and grace; while her watchful care and never-failing patience and cheerfulness are beginning to assert their charm upon the man to whom she is devoting herself, as is noticeable in his many efforts to make life pleasant to her, in his frequent appeals to her judgment and approval of his work, and the courtesy which he invariably accords her.

Ino has grown, although he is still a beautiful child—very bright and forward for his age, and a source of great enjoyment to his father, who, even now, has begun to direct his tiny hands in the use of the mallet and chisel.

It was more than a year after her marriage that Edith, accompanied by her mother, visited the annual exhibition of the —— Academy of Art.

Among the numerous pictures which were shown there were two which attracted more attention than all the others. They were evidently intended as companion-pieces, and had been painted by the same artist.

The scene was laid in an avenue of a park. On either side there grew beautiful, great trees, whose widespread branches made graceful shadows on the graveled walk beneath. In the center of this avenue—in the first picture—two figures stood facing each other; one an elderly man, proud and haughty in his bearing, richly dressed and with a certain air of the world investing him, but with a face—although possessing great natural beauty—so wretched and full of remorse, so lined and seamed with soul-anguish, that the heart of every beholder was instantly moved to deepest sympathy.

Before him stood a beautiful maiden who was the embodiment of all that was pure and happy. Her face was lovely beyond description—its every feature perfect, its expression full of sweetness and peace, while a divine pity and yearning shone forth from her heavenly blue eyes, which were upraised to the despairing countenance of her companion.

Her dress was simple white, belted at the waist with a girdle and flowing ends of gleaming satin ribbon, while a dainty straw hat, from which a single white plume drooped gracefully, crowned her golden head.

The gentleman was standing with outstretched hands, as if in the act of making some appeal to the fair girl, whose grave sweetness, while it suggested no yielding, yet indicated pity and sorrow for the other's suffering.

The second picture presented the same figures, but its import was entirely different.

Away down the avenue, the young girl, looking even more fair and graceful, was just passing out of sight, while the gentleman had turned and was gazing after her, a rapt expression on his face, the misery all obliterated from it, the despair all gone from his eyes, while in their place there had dawned a look of resignation and peace, and a faint smile even seemed to hover about the previously pain-lined mouth, which told that he had just learned some lesson from his vanishing angel that had changed the whole future for him.

As Edith looked upon these paintings, which betrayed a master-hand in every stroke of the brush, a rush of tears blinded her eyes, for she instantly recognized the scene, although there had been no attempt at portraiture in the faces, and she read at once the story they were intended to reveal.

They were catalogued as "Unrest" and "Peace."

She knew, even before she discovered the initials—"G. G."—in one corner, that Gerald Goddard had painted these pictures, and that he had taken for his subject their meeting in the park the previous year.

They took the first prize, and the artist immediately received numerous and flattering offers for them, but his agent replied to all such that the pictures were not for sale.

A month later a sealed package was delivered at Edith's door, and it was addressed to her.

Upon opening it she found a document bequeathing to her two paintings, lately exhibited at the Academy, which would be delivered to her upon application to a certain art dealer in the city, whose address was inclosed. The communication stated that she was free to make whatever disposition of them she saw fit.

Upon a heavy card accompanying them there was written the following words:

"The blessing of Aaron has been fulfilled. May the same
peace rest upon thee and thine forever. G. G."

Upon inquiring about the pictures of the dealer referred to, Edith was informed that Gerald Goddard had died only the week previous of quick consumption, and his body had been quietly interred in Greenwood, according to his own instructions.

His two paintings, "Unrest" and "Peace," were left in the care of his friend, to be delivered to Mrs. Royal Bryant, whenever she should call for them.

Edith was deeply touched by this act, and by the fact that the man had devoted the remnant of his life to picturing that scene which seemed to have made such a deep impression upon his mind, while a feeling of thankfulness swelled in her heart with the thought that perhaps she had spoken the "word in season" that had helped to lead into the "paths of peace" the weary worlding, who, even then, was treading so swiftly toward the verge of the "Great Unknown."

Not many weeks later the New York Herald contained the following announcement:

"MARRIED.—On Wednesday, the 18th, the Honorable Willard Livermore to Mrs. Isabel Stewart, both of New York."

THE END.