CHAPTER IX.

THE GUEST AT RIVERSIDE.


The November days had come. The satin dress was made--the bridal veil
sent home--the wreath of orange, too; and then, one morning when the
summer, it would seem, had come to revisit the scenes of its brief
reign, Mr. Browning kissed his bride-elect, and wiped away the two big
tears which dropped from her eyelashes when he told her that he was
going away for that day and the next.

"But when to-morrow's sun is setting, I shall be with you again," he
said, and he bade her quiet the fluttering of her little heart, which
throbbed so painfully at parting with him.

"I don't know why it is," she said, "I'm not one bit superstitious,
but Bruno howled so dismally under my window all night, and when he
ceased, a horrid owl set up a screech. I told Maria, and she said, in
her country the cry of an owl was a sign that the grave was about to
give up its dead, and she looked so mysterious that she frightened me
all the more--"

"That Maria is too superstitious, and I don't like her to be with you
so much," said Mr. Browning, his own cheek turning slightly pale, as
he thought of the grave giving up _his_ dead. Thrice he turned back to
kiss the little maiden, who followed him down the avenue, and then
climbed into a box-like seat, which had been built on the top of the
gate-post, and was sheltered by a sycamore. "Here," said she, "shall I
wait for you to-morrow night, when the sun is away over there. Oh, I