Julia Warren mounted the stairs in wild haste, as the caged bird springs from perch to perch when terrified by strange faces. Then she paused in her fright, doubtful where to turn or what room to enter. As she stood thus irresolute, a door was softly pushed open, and a fair young face looked out. The eyes were bent downward; the cheek and temples shaded with masses of loose ringlets, that admitted snowy glimpses of a graceful neck and shoulders, uncovered save by these bright tresses and a muslin dressing-down, half falling off, and huddled to the bosom with a fair little hand.

Imperceptibly the door swung more and more open, till Julia caught the outline of a figure, slender, flexible, and so fragile in its beauty, that to her excited imagination it seemed almost ethereal. Like a spirit that listens for some kindred sympathy, the young creature bent in the half-open door. The faint murmur of voices from below rose and fell upon her ear. No words could be distinguished; nothing but the low, deep tones of a voice, familiar and dear as the pulsations of her own heart, blended with the strangely passionate accents of another. The gentle listener could hardly convince herself that some strange woman had not entered the house, so thrilling and full of pathos was that voice, usually so calm and frigid.

Julia stood motionless, holding her breath. She saw nothing but the outline of a slender person, the shadowy gleam of features through masses of wavy hair, but it seemed as if she had met that graceful vision before—it might be in a dream—it might be—stay, the young girl lifted her head, and swept back the ringlets with her hand. A pair of dark, liquid eyes fell upon the flower girl, and she knew the glance. The eyes were larger, brighter, more densely circled with shadows than they had been, but the tender expression, the soft loveliness, nothing could change that.

The hand dropped from among the ringlets it held, away from that pale cheek, and a glow, as of freshly-gathered roses, broke through them as Florence drew her form gently up, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the intruder.

Julia came forward, changing color with every step.

"A gentleman—the lady, I mean—I—I was sent up here. If they want the flowers for you, I would not mind, though the other lady has spoken for them!"

Florence cast her eyes on the basket of flowers; a bright smile kindled over her face, and drawing the girl into the chamber, she took the heavy basket in her arms, and, overpowered by its weight, sunk softly down to the carpet, resting it in her lap. Thus, with the blossoms half buried in the white waves of her dressing-gown, she literally buried her face in them, while her very heart seemed to drink in the perfume that exhaled again in broken and exquisite sighs.

"And he sent them?—how good, how thoughtful! Oh! I am too—too happy!"

She gathered up a double handful of the blossoms, and rained them back into the basket. Their perfume floated around her; some of the buds fell in the folds of her snowy muslin, that drooped like waves of foam over her limbs. She was happy and beautiful as an angel gathering blossoms in some chosen nook of Paradise.

There was something contagious in all this—something that sent the dew to Julia's eyes, and a glow of love to her heart.

"I am glad—I am almost glad that he made me come in," she said, dropping on her knees, that she might gather up some buds that had fallen over the basket. "How I wish you could have them all! He offered a large gold piece, but you know I could not take it. If we—that is, if grandpa and grandma were rich, I never would take a cent for flowers; it seems as if God made them on purpose to give away."

"So they are not mine, after all?" said Florence, with a look and tone of disappointment.

"Yes—oh, yes, a few. That glass thing on the toilet, I will crowd it quite full, the prettiest too—just take out those you like best."

"Still he ordered them—he tried to purchase the whole, in that lies happiness enough." The sweet, joyous look stole back to her face again; that thought was more precious than all the fragrance and bloom she had coveted.

The door-bell rang. Florence heard persons coming from the parlor, she started up leaving the basket at her feet.

"Oh, I shall delay him—I shall be too late; will no one come to help me?" she exclaimed. "I dare not ask her, but you, surely you could stay for half an hour?"

"I must stay if you wish it; he will not let me go; but indeed, indeed, I am in haste. It will be quite dark."

"I do not wish to keep you by force," said Florence, gently; "but you seem kind, and I have no one to help me dress. Besides, she, his mother, will not stay in the room, and the thought of being quite alone, with no bridesmaid—no woman even for a witness—it frightens me!"

"What—what is it that you wish of me?" questioned Julia while a sudden and strange thrill ran through her frame.

"I wish you to stay a little while to help to put on my dress, and then go down with me. You look very young, but no one else will come near me, and it seems unnatural to be married without a single female standing by."

Florence grew pale as she spoke; there was indeed something lonely and desolate in her position, which all at once came over her with overwhelming force. Julia, too, from surprise or some deeper feeling, seemed struck with a sudden chill; her lips were slightly parted, the color fled from her cheek.

"Married! married!" she repeated, in a voice that fell upon the heart of Florence like an omen.

"To-night, in an hour, I shall be his wife!" How pale the poor bride was as these words fell from her lips! How coldly lay the heart in her bosom! She bent her head as if waiting for the guardian angel who should have kept better watch over a being so full of trust and gentleness.

"His wife! his!" said Julia, recoiling a step, "oh! how can you—how can you!"

A crimson flush shot over that pale forehead, and Florence drew up her form to its full height.

"Will you help me—will you stay?"

"I dare not say no!" answered the child; "I would not, if I dare."

Again the door-bell rang. "Hush!" said Florence, breathlessly; "it is the clergyman; that is a strange voice, and he—Leicester—admits him. How happy I thought to be at this hour; but I am chilly, chilly as death; oh, help me, child!"

She had been making an effort to arrange her hair, but her hands trembled, and at length fell helplessly down. She really seemed shivering with cold.

"Sit down, sit down in this easy-chair, and let me try," said Julia, shaking off the chill that had settled on her spirits, and wheeling a large chair, draped with white dimity, toward the toilet. Lights were burning in tall candlesticks on each side of a swing mirror, whose frame of filagreed and frosted silver gleamed ghastly and cold on the pale face of the bride.

"How white I am; will nothing give me a color?" cried the young creature, starting up from the chair. "Warmth—that is what I want! My dress—let us put on that first; then I can muffle myself in something while you curl my hair."

She took up a robe of costly Brussels lace. "Isn't it beautiful?" she said, with a smile, shaking out the soft folds. "He sent it." She then threw off her dressing-gown, and arrayed herself in the bridal robe; the exertion seemed to animate her; a bright bloom rose to her cheek, and her motions became nervous with excitement.

"Some orange blossoms to loop up the skirt in front," she said, after Julia had fastened the dress; "here, just here!" and she gathered up some folds of the soft lace in her hand, watching the child as she fell upon one knee to perform the task. Florence was trembling from head to foot with the wild, eager excitement that had succeeded the chill of which she had complained, and could do nothing for herself. When the buds were all in place, she sunk into the easy-chair, huddling her snowy arms and bosom in a rose-colored opera cloak; for, though her cheeks were burning, cold shivers now and then seemed to ripple through her veins. The soft trimming of swan's down, which she pressed to her bosom with both hands, seemed devoid of all warmth one moment, and the next she flung it aside glowing with over-heat. There was something more than agitation in all this, but it gave unearthly splendor to her beauty.

"Now—now," said Julia, laying the last ringlet softly down upon the neck of the bride; "look at yourself, sweet lady, see how beautiful you are."

Florence stood up, and smiled as she saw herself in the mirror; an angel from heaven could not have looked more delicately radiant. Masses of raven curls fell upon the snowy neck and the bridal dress. Circling her head, and bending with a soft curve to the forehead, was a light wreath of starry jessamine flowers, woven with the deep, feathery green of some delicate spray, that Julia selected from her basket because it was so tremulous and fairy-like. All at once the smile fled from the lips of Florence Craft; a look of mournful affright came to her eyes, and she raised both hands to tear away the wreath.

"Did you know it? Was this done on purpose?" she said, turning upon the child.

"What—what have I done?"

"This wreath—these jessamines—you have woven them with cypress leaves." Florence sunk into the chair shuddering; she had no strength to unweave the ominous wreath from her head.

"I—I did not know it," said the child greatly distressed; "they were beautiful—I only thought of that. Shall I take them off, and put roses in the place?"

"Yes! yes—roses, roses—these make me feel like death!"

That instant there was a gentle knock at the chamber door; Julia opened it, and there stood Mr. Leicester. The child drew back: he saw Florence standing before the toilet.

"Florence, love, we are waiting!"

He advanced into the chamber and drew her arm through his. She looked back into the mirror, and shuddered till the cypress leaves trembled visibly in her curls.

"My beautiful—my wife!" whispered Leicester, pressing her hand to his lips.

What woman could withstand that voice—those words? The color came rushing to her cheek again, the light to her eyes; she trembled, but not with the ominous fear that possessed her a moment before. Those words—sweeter than hope—shed warmth, and light, and joy where terror had been.

"Follow us!" said Leicester addressing the child.

Julia moved forward: a thought seemed to strike the bridegroom; he paused—

"You can write—at least well enough to sign your name?" he said.

"Yes, I can write," she answered, timidly.

"Very well—come!"

The parlor was brilliantly illuminated, every shutter was closed, and over the long window, hitherto shaded only with lace, fell curtains of amber damask, making the seclusion more perfect.

A clergyman was in the room, and Leicester had brought his servant as a witness. This man stood near the window, leaning heavily against the wall, his features immovable, his eyes bent upon the door. Julia started as she saw him, for she remembered the time they had met before upon the wharf, on that most eventful day of her life. His glance fell on her as she came timidly in behind the bridegroom and the bride; there was a slight change in his countenance, then a gleam of recognition, which made the child feel less completely among strangers.

It was a brief ceremony; the clergyman's voice was monotonous; the silence chilling. Julia wept; to her it seemed like a funeral.

The certificate was made out. Jacob signed his name, but so bunglingly that no one could have told what it was. Mr. Leicester did not make the effort. Julia took the pen, her little hand trembled violently, but the name was written quite well enough for a girl of her years.

"Now, sir—now, please, may I go?" she said, addressing Leicester.

"Yes, yes—here is the piece of gold. I trust your employer will find no fault—but first tell me where you live?"

Julia told him where to find her humble abode, and hurried from the room. Her basket of flowers had been left in the chamber above; she ran up to get it, eager to be gone. In her haste she opened the nearest door; it was a bed-room, dimly lighted, and by a low couch knelt the old lady she had seen in the hall. Her hands were clasped, her white face uplifted; there was anguish in her look, but that tearless anguish that can only be felt after the passions are quenched. Julia drew softly back. She found her basket in the next room, and came forth again, bearing it on her arm. She heard Leicester's voice while passing through the hall, and hurried out, dreading that he might attempt to detain her.

Scarcely had the child passed out when Leicester came forth, leading Florence by the hand. He spoke a few words to her in a low voice: "Try and reconcile her, Florence. She never loved me, I know that, but who could resist you? To-morrow, if she proves stubborn, I will take you hence, or, at the worst, in a few days we will be ready for our voyage to Europe."

Florence listened with downcast eyes. "My father, my kind old father! he will not be angry; he must have known how it would end when he gave me to your charge. Still it may offend him to hear that I am married, when he thinks me at school."

"He will not be angry, love," said Leicester, and he thought of the letter announcing old Mr. Craft's death. "But the good lady up stairs; you must win her into a better mood before we meet again; till then, sweet wife, adieu!"

He kissed her hand two or three times—cast a hurried glance up stairs, as if afraid of being seen, and then pressed her, for one instant, to his bosom.

"Sweet wife!" the name rang through and through her young heart like a chime of music. She held her breath, and listened to his footsteps as he left the house, then stole softly up the stairs.

The clergyman went out while Julia was up stairs in search of her flowers. Jacob Strong left the parlor at the same time, but instead of returning, he let the clergyman out, and, moving back into the darkened extremity of the hall, stood there, concealed and motionless. He witnessed the interview between Leicester and Florence, and, so still was everything around, heard a little of the conversation.

Before Florence was half way up the stairs he came out of the darkness and spoke to her.

"Only a little while, dear lady, pray come back; I will not keep you long."

Florence, thinking that Leicester had left some message with his servant, descended the stairs and entered the parlor. Jacob followed her and closed the door; a few minutes elapsed—possibly ten, and there came from the closed room a wild, passionate cry of anguish. The door was flung open—the bride staggered forth, and supported herself against the frame-work.

"Mother! mother! oh, madam!" Her voice broke, and ended in gasping sobs.

A door overhead opened, and the old lady whom Julia had seen upon her knees came gliding like a black shadow down the stairs.

"I thought that he had gone," she said, and her usually calm accent was a little hurried. "Would he kill you under my roof? William Leicester!"

"He is not here—he is gone," sobbed Florence, "but that man——" She pointed with her finger toward Jacob Strong, who stood a little within the door. He came forward, revealing a face from which all the stolid indifference was swept away. It was not only troubled, but wet with tears.

"It is cruel—I have been awfully cruel," he said, addressing the old lady—"but she must be told. I could not put it off. She thought herself his wife."

"I am his wife!—I am his wife!—his wife, do you hear?" almost shrieked the wretched girl. "He called me so himself. You saw us married, and yet dare to slander him!"

"Lady, she is not his wife!" said Jacob, sinking his voice, but speaking earnestly, as if the task he had undertaken were very painful. "He is married already!"

"He told me—and gave me letters from abroad to prove that Ada, his wife, was dead." The old lady spoke in her usual calm way, but her face was paler than it had been, and her eyes were full of mournful commiseration as she bent them upon the wretched bride.

"Then he was married—he has been married before!" murmured Florence, and her poor, pale hands, fell helplessly down. The old lady drew close to her, as if to offer some comfort, but she had so long held all affectionate impulses in abeyance, that even this action was constrained and chilling, though her heart yearned toward the poor girl.

"Madam, did you believe him when he said his wife was no more?" questioned Jacob Strong.

The old lady shook her head, and a mournful smile stole across her thin lips; pain is fearfully impressive when wrung from the heart in a smile like that. Florence shuddered.

"And you—you also, his mother!" burst from her quivering lips.

"God forgive me! I am," answered the old lady.

"Then," said Jacob Strong, turning his face resolutely from the poor, young creature, whose heart his words were crushing: "Then, madam, you have seen his wife—you would know her again?"

"Yes, I should know her."

"This night, this very night, you shall see her then. Come with me; this poor young lady will not believe what I have said. Come and be a witness that Mrs. Ada Leicester is alive—alive with his knowledge. Two hours from this you shall see them together—Leicester and his wife, the mother of his child. Will you come? there seems no other way by which this poor girl can be saved."

"I—I will go! let me witness this meeting," cried Florence, suddenly arousing herself, and standing upright. "I will not take his word nor yours; you slander him, you slander him! If he has a wife, let me look upon her with my own eyes."

The old lady and Jacob looked at each other. Florence stood before them, her soft eyes flashing, her cheeks fired with the blood grief had driven from her heart.

"You dare not—I know it, you dare not!"

Still her auditors looked at each other in painful doubt.

"I knew that it was false!" cried Florence, with a laugh of wild exultation. "You hesitate, this proves it. To-morrow, madam, I will leave this roof—I will go to my husband. The very presence of those who slander him is hateful to me. To-night; yes, this instant, I will go."

"Let her be convinced," said the old lady.

The strong nerves of Jacob gave way. He looked at that young face, so beautiful in its wild anguish, and shrunk from the consequences of the conviction that awaited her.

"It would be her death," he said. "I cannot do it!"

"Better death than that which might follow this unbelief."

The old lady placed her hand upon Jacob's arm, and drew him aside. They conversed together in low voices, and Florence regarded them with her large, wild eyes, as a wounded gazelle might gaze upon its pursuers.

"Come!" said Leicester's mother, attempting to lay her hand upon the shrinking arm of the bride; "it needs some preparation, but you shall go. God help us both, this is a fearful task!"

Florence was strong with excitement. She turned, and almost ran up the stairs. Jacob went out, and during the next two hours, save a slight sound in the upper rooms, from time to time, the cottage seemed abandoned.

At length a carriage stopped at the gate. Jacob entered, and seating himself in the parlor, waited. They came down at last, but so changed, that no human penetration could have detected their identity. The old lady was still in black, but so completely enveloped in a veil of glossy silk, that nothing but her eyes could be seen. A diamond crescent upon the forehead, a few silver stars scattered among the sombre folds that flowed over her person, gave sufficient character to a dress that was only chosen as a disguise.

Florence was in a similar dress, save that everything about her was snowy white. A veil of flowing silk had been cast over her bridal array, glossy and wave-like, but thick enough to conceal her features. Gleams of violet and rosy tulle floated over this, like the first tints of sunrise and the morning star, sparkling with diamonds, gathered up the veil on her left temple, leaving it to flow, like the billows of a cloud, over her form, and downward till it swept her feet. Without a word the three went forth and entered the carriage.