It was a busy day for all of them: a busier day for none of them
than Grace, who noiselessly presided everywhere, and was the
cheerful mind of all the preparations. Many a time that day (as
well as many a time within the fleeting month preceding it), did
Clemency glance anxiously, and almost fearfully, at Marion. She
saw her paler, perhaps, than usual; but there was a sweet composure
on her face that made it lovelier than ever.

At night when she was dressed, and wore upon her head a wreath that
Grace had proudly twined about it - its mimic flowers were Alfred's
favourites, as Grace remembered when she chose them - that old
expression, pensive, almost sorrowful, and yet so spiritual, high,
and stirring, sat again upon her brow, enhanced a hundred-fold.

'The next wreath I adjust on this fair head, will be a marriage
wreath,' said Grace; 'or I am no true prophet, dear.'

Her sister smiled, and held her in her arms.

'A moment, Grace. Don't leave me yet. Are you sure that I want
nothing more?'

Her care was not for that. It was her sister's face she thought
of, and her eyes were fixed upon it, tenderly.

'My art,' said Grace, 'can go no farther, dear girl; nor your
beauty. I never saw you look so beautiful as now.'

'I never was so happy,' she returned.