shuddering at the mourners, the shrouded bridegroom and herself; the
whole scene expressed by the strongest imagery the vain struggle of
the gilded vanities of this world when opposed to age, infirmity,
sorrow and death.

The awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman.

"Mr. Ellenwood," said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat of authority,
"you are not well. Your mind has been agitated by the unusual
circumstances in which you are placed. The ceremony must be deferred.
As an old friend, let me entreat you to return home."

"Home--yes; but not without my bride," answered he, in the same hollow
accents. "You deem this mockery--perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my
aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery, had I forced my
withered lips to smile at my dead heart, that might have been mockery
or madness; but now let young and old declare which of us has come
hither without a wedding-garment--the bridegroom or the bride."

He stepped forward at a ghostly pace and stood beside the widow,
contrasting the awful simplicity of his shroud with the glare and
glitter in which she had arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None
that beheld them could deny the terrible strength of the moral which
his disordered intellect had contrived to draw.

"Cruel! cruel!" groaned the heartstricken bride.

"Cruel?" repeated he; then, losing his deathlike composure in a wild
bitterness, "Heaven judge which of us has been cruel to the other! In
youth you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you took