length, finding no further excuse for delaying, she came slowly down the
aisle, looking a little pale herself. Several of the village young folks
who understood the situation lingered, smiling at one other, to see the
fun out, and Cordis himself recognized his rival's tragical look with an
amused expression, at the same time that he seemed entirely disposed to
cross lances with him.

As Madeline approached the door, Henry stepped forward and huskily asked
if he might take her home. Bowing to him with a gracious smile of
declination, she said, "Thanks," and, taking Cordis's arm, passed out
with him.

As they came forth into the shadow of the night, beyond the illumination
of the porch lamps of the church, Cordis observed--

"Really, that was quite tragical. I half expected he would pull out a
revolver and shoot us both. Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him."

"He was sorrier than you are glad, I dare say, said Madeline.

"Well, I don't know about that," he replied; "I'm as glad as I can be,
and I suppose he's as sorry as he can be. I can't imagine any man in love
with such a girl as you not being one or the other all the while."

But the tone was a little, a very little, colder than the words, and her
quick ear caught the difference.

"What's the matter? Are you vexed about anything? What have I done?" she
asked, in a tone of anxious deprecation which no other person but
Harrison Cordis had ever heard from her lips.