CHAPTER TEN

_The Star of Peace_

The one idea of New York, now that peace was assured, was renovation and reconstruction. Every one was busy. The war was a dead issue, commerce was a living one. The passion for trading and building took the place of the military passion, and the happy sounds of labour and traffic superseded those of the cannon and the drum.

The preservation of the city had been for four years the dominant care of its inhabitants; now that it was safe they turned with a vehement spirit of industry to building up trade and commerce in every direction. It was under these auspices a joyful city. There was less dancing and dining, but there was a growing prosperity and content, for all had some business or handicraft to pursue, and all were full of hope and energy.

And the spirit of reconstruction was as potent in women as in men, though their arena for its exercise was more restricted. Mrs. Bloommaert began at once to talk of new carpets and curtains, and of a complete refurnishing of the principal rooms of the house. And as the spring came on every dwelling on the Bowling Green caught this fever of improvement; and first one and then another displayed to passers-by their fresh paint and their new lace draperies. It was a sign of some consequence, for it typified the strength of that hope and energy which embraced domestic comforts and elegancies as part and parcel of their civic prosperity.

In all the changes made in the Bloommaert house Sappha felt, or at least affected to feel, a sufficient interest. She could not shadow her mother’s busy pleasure by any evident want of sympathy, yet it was sometimes difficult to forget sufficiently her offended lover. Her soul--that strange, fluttering mystery--had lost its life’s dominant, the other soul to which it had learned to refer every thought and desire; and there was now silence or discord where once there had been sweetest melody. Her suffering, however, was no longer a storm, it was rather a still, hopeless rain, an unimpassioned grief that seldom found the natural outlet of tears. But these constant fires of repression and self-immolation were sacramental as well as sacrificial. They were strong with absolution also; and thus made calm and sure by much sorrow and by one love, she gradually came out of trouble with a spirit tempered as by fire; having lost nothing in the furnace but the dross of her nobler qualities.

She rarely heard of Leonard. She knew that he was in New Orleans, and attached to the staff of General Jackson; and so, in the final struggle, doing his duty to his country. But she never forgot the fact that he ought to have been in his native city. “It is my fault, all my fault. No wonder Leonard cannot forgive me,” she said when Mrs. Bloommaert blamed his absence during the darkest days New York had known.

The news of the victory at New Orleans followed closely on the news of peace. It was brought to the Bloommaert household by Achille, who received it with a letter from Mr. Edward Livingston. “Our friend Leonard Murray was wounded in the right arm,” he added; “rather a bad sword cut, but he is with the Livingstons, and has every possible care and attention.”

Annette came in later, and, unaware of her husband’s visit, made a great deal more of Leonard’s wound than Achille had done. She “hoped it would not be necessary to resort to amputation--a right arm was so convenient, not to say necessary. And he got it just for interfering,” she continued. “An English officer had struck down a man carrying the flag, and Leonard caught the flag as it was falling, and then of course the Englishman fell upon Leonard. Leonard always was so interfering--I mean so ready to do every one’s duty for them. You see it was not his place to take care of the flag; so he got hurt taking care of it. Grandfather de Vries always told me never to volunteer, and never to interfere. If a person does his own work and duty in this world, it is all that can be expected of him. Poor Leonard!”

“Oh!” said Sappha, “I think you may keep your pity, Annette, for these poor creatures who never volunteer and never interfere. Suppose every one had followed your grandfather’s advice, where would America be now?”

“I do not know. It is not my place to look after America,” answered Annette.

“I will tell you then--it would be under the feet of England.”

“Grandfather de Vries often says there were very good times when the English were here----”

“Come, come, Annette,” interrupted Mrs. Bloommaert, “you are only talking nonsense. When do you move into your new house?”

“Next month. Achille is delightfully considerate. All my rooms are furnished in blue, because he thinks blue so becoming to me; and he takes my advice entirely about the rest. We shall have the most elegant dwelling in the city; and I am glad this dreadful war is over. Now I can get the carpets I desire.”

“Did Mrs. Livingston say anything about the condition of New Orleans?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.

“I did not read her letter. Achille desired me to do so, but I have honour. I would not read Mrs. Livingston’s letter. I do not see why she should write to my husband. I do not write to Mr. Livingston.”

“She is an old friend of Achille’s. Mr. Livingston is much too busy to write letters. Perhaps she thought Leonard Murray had friends in New York who would be glad to hear that he was well cared for.”

“Do you believe that Leonard Murray yet remembers us? I do not. We were all so kind to the young man, and Achille stood by him when no one else would. Oh, you need not leave the room, Sappha! I was just going to praise Leonard a little.”

But Sappha did leave the room, and Mrs. Bloommaert said with some temper:

“You have done mischief enough, Annette; why can you not let Leonard alone? You are too unkind to Sappha.”

“Oh, then, aunt, I think it is Sappha who is truly cruel to me. Because she will not come to our house, I shall have to remove to that ugly Mowatt place. I hate it. All the pretty furniture in the world will not make it endurable; and if Sappha will not visit us there, I know not what Achille will say or do. To be driven from house to house for Sappha’s temper is not a pleasant or a reasonable thing.”

“Before Sappha’s temper, there was your own temper, Annette; and I am sure you need not expect Sappha to visit you in your new home unless you also expect Leonard.”

“I suppose I shall have to write to Leonard, and tell him the trouble I am in. I think he would come back and get Sappha to forgive me properly, if I ask him. He was always very fond of me.”

“If you write to Leonard Murray one word about Sapphira Bloommaert I will never speak to you again, Annette. You may depend upon that! How can you be so malicious?”

“Malicious! You will misunderstand me, aunt Carlita. I thought perhaps if I wrote and told Leonard how angry Sappha was, and how Achille had nearly quarrelled with me about Sappha, he might come back to New York. And I am sure any one can see that Sappha is breaking her heart about his desertion of her.”

“Sappha is doing nothing of the kind. Sappha is perfectly happy.”

“Oh, I am so glad to hear it! Sappha is perfectly happy! Why did she go away? I really meant nothing unkind. If she had only remained, I was going to tell her about Aglae Davezac, Mrs. Livingston’s lovely sister. I dare say she consoles Leonard very well. She is not handsome, but she has a beautiful figure, and is very witty.”

“Annette, if you will believe me, we are neither of us interested in either Mrs. Livingston or her lovely sister. There are things nearer home. When did you call on your grandmother? She was complaining of your neglect lately.”

“I am just going to see her.”

“I hope you will tell her exactly what you have said here.”

“No, we shall talk about Jonaca and the new house. Good-morning, aunt!”

Annette’s visits had fallen into this kind of veiled unfriendliness. She would have ceased coming to the Bowling Green at all if Achille’s pointed inquiries had not forced her into a semblance of civility, for she blamed Sappha, not only for her removal to the Mowatt house, but also for many a passage of words between Achille and herself that were less agreeable than they ought to have been, or would have been if Sappha had not formed the subject of discussion. And from Annette’s point of view, perhaps there was cause for some irritation. For a few hasty words which Sappha refused to ignore, there had been many hasty ones between herself and Achille; and, moreover, she did not feel the Mowatt house any equivalent for the roomy, aristocratic dwelling she had been compelled to abandon. Every annoyance that came up regarding this removal she blamed Sappha for; and though she affected to be pleased with the change, it had not only been a bitter mortification to her, but also brought other unpleasant consequences in its train. For it had been just the very kind of thing necessary to rouse Achille to a sense of small household tyranny that he had tolerated because he preferred toleration to assertion. But having once affirmed and exerted his right he had not again relinquished the authority of master.

“I submitted too easily,” said Annette, when discussing the subject with her grandmother; “and now Achille just says ‘madame will do this,’ or ‘madame will go there,’ or ‘madame will say so-and-so,’ and I seem to have no power to say madame will not. Oh, grandmother, just for a few words! It is too much punishment! I was so happy, and now I am not happy at all. I sometimes wish that I could die.”

“Annette, my dear one, thou must not make more of trouble than there is. Often I have told thee not to complain; after complaint there is no oblivion. If Achille can be polite, cannot thou be silent? With silence, one may plague the devil; but as for spoken words, no sponge wipes them out.”

Thus and so events were progressing, as the spring of 1815 waxed to June and roses again. There was at this time some probability that the judge might be requested to go to England as legal adviser to agents sent by the government to arrange some question of boundary not very clearly stated; and if so, he proposed to take his wife and daughter with him.

Sappha heard of this arrangement with dismay, and it was hard for her to enter into her mother’s little flurry of anticipation. She did not wish to leave New York at all, for she felt certain that Leonard would return as soon as he was able, if only to look after his large interests in property and real estate. For in the short time intervening between the advent of peace and the advent of summer the whole aspect of New York had been changed. Stores and warehouses long closed were open, houses of all kinds had found ready tenants, the streets were crowded with vehicles, the shipyards literally alive, and vessels coming and going constantly from and to every quarter of the globe. There was not a branch of industry nor a corner of the city where New York’s citizens were not proving their liberal views, their broad intelligence, and their energetic activity. How could Leonard Murray stay away from his own city when it was offering him such advantages for new investments and such excellent opportunities for those he already possessed?

She did not include herself among the reasons for his return. She had no hope that she could influence it in any way. If Leonard had not quite forgotten her, he had at least resolved not to renew their acquaintance in any degree. If this were not the case, he would have written to her, sent her some message, some token, if it were only a flower. And at this point she always felt anew the pang of despair; for Leonard would never give her another flower. She had no reason to expect it, she did not deserve it. Here reflection stopped. It could go no further, the memory of that scattered rose was a barrier that no love could put aside or win over.

She made one effort to remain at home; she went to her grandmother and entreated that she would interfere for her. “If you desired me to stay with you, dear grandmother,” she said, “my father would permit it; I am sure he would.”

“So then, dear one, I must not ask him. Thy mother, what of her? Very much disappointed she would be. To see the wonderful sights of London alone, what pleasure would she find in that? And the shopping, and the visiting without thee, would not be the same. Oh, no, it is in thy delight the good mother will find delight; and in the admiration thou wilt receive will be her honour. Very much alone she will be without thee, for, as to thy father, the affairs of his commission will occupy him. Shall I tell thee thy duty? It is to put away all regret from thy thoughts; to give thyself to the honour and pleasure of thy good parents; to add thy smiles, thy hopes, thy glad young spirits to theirs. This is a great honour for thy father, a great pleasure for thy mother, and if Sapphira Bloommaert I know, I think she will not make it less. No, she will smile, and then ten times greater it will be.”

And at these words Sappha smiled, and promised to go willingly and do all she could to increase the joy of those with her.

“And that will not only be right, but wise,” answered the old lady; “for in the way of duty it is that we meet blessing and happiness.”

From this interview Sappha went home determined to lift cheerfully the burden in her way; and lo! it became lighter than a grasshopper. She found that as soon as she put herself out of consideration she caught the spirit of the change; she became interested in all the details of their journey, and finally almost enthusiastic. Then her father’s pride and happy anticipations were hers, as were also her mother’s manifold little plans for her own desires and her promises for the desires of others. They lingered over their meals, and they sat hours later at night, talking about the places they were to visit, the people they were to see, and the beautiful things they were to purchase. They had long lists of china, and silk, and lace, to which they were constantly adding; for all their relatives and friends and acquaintances had commissions for them to fill.

In these busy, happy days Sappha won back all the gladsomeness she had lost. She put Leonard, with a loving thought, into the background of her hopes. She gave herself without one grudging thought to the joy set before her. And with this happy spirit came back the radiancy of her beauty; her step regained its elasticity, her cheeks their brilliant colour, her eyes their tender glow, her smiles their love-making persuasion. And every one but madame said it was because she was going to Europe and expected to be presented at Court. Even the judge smiled a little sarcastically, and said to himself, “Leonard Murray has been forgotten.” Mrs. Bloommaert did not err quite so far; but realising the charm of all the new expectations before her, she gave them the credit of changing Sappha’s dejection to cheerfulness. It was only madame who knew the secret of the happy transition; she understood how the noblest feelings had crushed down the selfish ones and restored the almost despairing girl, by showing her life with a larger horizon than her own personality.

So affairs went on in the Bowling Green house until only ten days remained for the last preparations. And these days were expected to be full of visits and farewell hospitalities; for a voyage to Europe was at that time an undertaking surrounded by uncertainty, and even danger, and people went to the Bloommaerts to bid them good-bye, and then as they spoke of the subject shook doubtful heads and wondered if they would ever see them again.

One day about a week before they were to leave Sappha put on her hat to go to Nassau Street. There had been many callers, and she was excited and a little weary, but Mrs. Bloommaert was still more so; and Sappha entreated her to try and sleep until she returned. Having darkened the room she went away, a little depressed by the shutting out of the sunlight, the uncovered stairway, and general air of the dismantled home. But she was so beautiful that any one might have wondered what mystic elements had been combined to produce that air of pleased serenity and thoughtful happiness, which gave to her youth and loveliness a charm that mere form and colour could not impart. She was thinking of Leonard. As she went slowly from step to step she was thinking of Leonard. That day Mrs. Livingston had called, and she had talked enthusiastically about him, of his bravery in action, and his cheerfulness when suffering; and, moreover, of his return to New York. “His wound had been worse than at first appeared likely,” she said, “but her sister-in-law believed he would be able to leave New Orleans before the yellow fever season. A thing very desirable,” she added, “for there are fears of a severe epidemic this year.”

“But Mr. Murray will come north before the danger?” asked Mrs. Bloommaert.

“I am sure he will; next month early, I should say.”

Sappha was thinking of this promise, and telling herself that she would persuade her grandmother to see Leonard and say for her all she would say, if present. She had supreme confidence in her love and wisdom, and believed that if ever Leonard could be reconciled, it might well be by Madame Bloommaert’s representations. She did not trust Annette, but her grandmother could not fail! and it was the light of these words “_could not fail!_” that gave such singular radiance and serenity to her face and manner.

She looked into the parlour to see if her father had returned home, and then opened the front door. As she did so an eager, tender voice said “_Sappha! Sappha!_” and at the same moment she cried out, “_Leonard! Leonard!_” The four words blended as one voice; and as they did so their hands clasped, their lips met, and the two that had been so miserably two, were now one again.

They went into the parlour and sat down, hardly able to speak--too happy to speak--too sure of each other to want explanations, even to bear them, throwing the wretched episode of the quarrel behind them, caring only for a future in which they might never more miss each other for a moment. Pale with suffering and confinement, Leonard had just that air of pathos which takes a woman’s heart by storm; and Sappha felt that she had never until that moment known how dear he was to her.

Mentally she asked herself what was now to be done. She felt that the journey to England had become an impossible thing. She could not leave Leonard. She could not even speak of the coming separation. For a little while she wished the felicity of their reunion to be shadeless, cloudless, saddened by no yesterday, fearing no to-morrow. Just one hour of such love could sweeten life, why invade it with any careful thought?

All too soon the careful thought came. Leonard had heard of the intended voyage, and it had filled him with such anxiety that against all advices and persuasions he had hastened his return to New York. He was resolved that Sappha should remain with him, or else that he should go with Sappha. In either case, immediate marriage was advisable, and Sappha had now no desire to oppose his wishes.

“We can be married to-morrow, the next day, the day we leave. What is to prevent it?” he asked. She laid her hand in his for answer, and at that moment the judge entered. And as Judge Bloommaert was a man who never required two lessons on any subject, he met Leonard with great kindness and sympathy; and when the subject of an immediate marriage was named made no objections to its consideration “as soon as Mrs. Bloommaert was present.”

Then Sappha went swiftly to her mother. She knelt down by the bedside and laid her head on her mother’s breast. “Father is home,” she whispered, “and Leonard! Oh, mother, mother! Leonard has come back to me! and he wants to go with us to England--and he wants to be married before we go. Mother, dear, sweet mother! you will agree with Leonard? Yes, you will! Yes, you will--for my sake, mother.”

“Are you dreaming, Sappha? How can Leonard be here? Mrs. Livingston said a few hours ago that he was in New Orleans.”

“But he left New Orleans the same day that her letter left. He could not stay in New Orleans when he heard we were going to England. He has travelled night and day, and he is still pale with suffering. You will be sorry only to see how pale he is. We cannot be parted again; he says it will kill him--and father says we may be married if you are willing. You are willing, mother? Yes, I know you are. Say yes, dear mother, say yes, for Sappha’s sake.”

“I will dress and see Leonard as soon as possible, Sappha. And if your father is willing for you to marry at once, of course I shall agree with him. But have you considered? We sail in six days. You have no wedding dress. The house is all topsy-turvy. Not a room we can set a table in--carpets up, curtains down, glass and silver all packed away.”

“Mother, none of these things are at all necessary. It is Leonard, and not carpets and glass and silver; and----”

“Yes, yes! I know! But you must have a decent gown; a new gown, an old one is unlucky.”

“Well, then, it can be made in two or three days--we have six days, you know. Come and see Leonard. I am sure you will see how sensible he is.”

Mrs. Bloommaert smiled, rose quickly and began to dress. “Go now and look after tea. Make things as nice as you can. I will be downstairs in half an hour.”

“And then you will stand by Leonard?”

“He has not stood very well by you the last year.”

“Please do not name that--do not think of it. I have always told you it was my fault.”

“It tosses all my plans upside down, Sappha. I expected to have you with me in all my pleasures. I shall have to wander about London alone, and I shall have no lovely daughter to introduce. Oh, ’tis a great disappointment to me!”

“We shall be together, mother. It will be all the same, and you will have Leonard also.”

“My dear, Leonard will want you all the time. I know. He will grudge for any one to breathe the air of the same room with you--but if you are happy, father and I must be content without you.”

“It will not be like that, mother. You will see.”

“Yes, fathers and mothers all _see_. Suppose now you go and tell the women in the kitchen to get us something to eat. We shall all be more amiable if we have the teacups before us.”

The discussion, however, was amiable enough. Judge Bloommaert had not watched his daughter for a year without coming to a very clear diagnosis of the conditions that alone would give her happiness; and he had plenty of that wisdom which knows the art of turning the inevitable into the thing most desirable. The hour had come. Sappha had waited with a beautiful patience for it; he was resolved to give her its joy, fully and freely, and without any holdback.

“Carlita,” he said, as soon as mutual greetings were over, “Carlita, Leonard wishes to marry Sappha at once, and go with us to England. I think it is a good plan. What say you?”

“I think with you always, Gerardus.”

“Such hurry will only admit of a very simple wedding ceremony, but Leonard says that is what Sappha and he prefer; and as it is their marriage, they have a right of choice. Eh, Leonard?”

“As you say, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Livingston will represent my friends, and if Sappha’s nearest relatives are witnesses the company will be of the proper size. Why should we ask half of New York to gaze at the most sacred and private of all domestic events?”

“Well, then, we will let it be so. Can you arrange for such a wedding, Carlita--say on the morning of the day we leave?”

“I can do my best, Gerardus.”

“The packet sails at two o’clock in the afternoon. I suppose the marriage could take place at twelve.”

“Better say at ten o’clock, Gerardus. We shall need time to change our dresses and pack up the last things.”

“True. Then, Leonard, we will say ten o’clock next Wednesday. Is that right?”

“If Sappha and Mrs. Bloommaert say so. I suppose it cannot be Saturday or Monday?”

“Impossible,” answered Mrs. Bloommaert. “There is a wedding dress to make.”

“Sappha has plenty of pretty dresses.”

“She has not, however, a wedding dress. She cannot be married without one.”

“Then perhaps it ought to be bought to-night. There is plenty of time yet.”

“In the morning will do.”

“If it should not be ready----”

“I will attend to that,” said Mrs. Bloommaert, and her manner was not only confident, but final on the subject.

“I must go out for an hour after tea, but when I return we can talk over a few business points,” said the judge to Leonard; and the young man was so elated and happy he only smiled; he could say neither yes nor no; everything had slipped from his consciousness but the joy of being near Sappha, of seeing her face, of hearing her speak, and feeling the clasp of her hand within his own.

Then when the judge had gone Mrs. Bloommaert said to Sappha: “I have a letter to write to your grandmother; a very important letter, and I shall have to pick my thoughts, and choose my words, and that is a thing I cannot do if you and Leonard are whispering behind me. Go into the other parlour, and make your little arrangements there.”

Very willingly they obeyed, and the sight of the piano was enough to raise the spirit of melody in Leonard’s heart. “Let us sing one song together, dearest,” he said, and Sappha found the key of the locked instrument, while Leonard searched among the piled music sheets for some song fit for the happy hour.

“Love’s Maytime,” he cried. “That sounds well.” And he stooped and kissed her as she seated herself. Their heads bent toward each other, they were radiant with the most transporting love and their hearts ravished with the bliss of their reunion.

“Sing, my love, and sadden me into deeper joy,” whispered Leonard; and soft and low to the simple melody Sappha sang:

“We two will see the springtime still In days with autumn rife; When wintry winds blow bleak and chill And we near the bourne of life.

“For love is ever young and kind, And love will with us stay Till we in Life’s December find A path of endless May.” --_Louis Ledoux._

Leonard caught the melody quickly, and Mrs. Bloommaert stopped her writing to listen. “Their voices are like one,” she thought. “They are happy, they may be more so, but ‘a path of endless May’ is asking a great deal; and yet, as we grow old and unbeautiful, the thought of endless life, and endless youth, and endless love, and endless May helps to make grey hair and failing strength bearable. What was it I heard Rose singing last night? Something of the same kind--some Methodist hymn about endless spring:

“There everlasting spring abides And never fading flowers.”

“Yes, everlasting spring would bring endless May, but I wish they would not now sing about it, the music interferes, I cannot write my letter, and if madame is not immediately informed of the marriage she will be offended.” Yet she did not silence the music. She understood that for the lovers the world was just then revolving in Paradise, and that music is the language of Paradise. So she erased, and wrote over, and finally finished with an apology for all her mistakes.

Very soon the judge returned, and when he had lit his pipe he called Leonard to join him; and they sat down together and talked of their intended voyage. “It is a purely business visit to England as far as I am concerned,” said the judge, “but we intend to be seen and to see; for there are many Americans in London at present, and with some of them I am familiar. May I ask, Leonard, what is taking you across the Atlantic at this time? Is Sappha entirely accountable?”

“Not quite, sir,” Leonard answered. “Sooner or later this year I must have gone to Scotland to fulfil my father’s last charge to me.” No one questioned this remark, and Leonard continued: “After the defeat at Sheriffmuir my great-grandfather found himself on the brink of ruin. His clan had virtually perished, and he had given his last sovereign to _The Cause_. Emigration was all that remained and he was the more eager for this outlet when he learned that his name was on the list of the proscribed chiefs, and his life in danger. He went to the Earl of Moray, who had not been ‘out,’ and sold his estate to him on these conditions: To the third generation it was to be redeemable; but if not then ransomed it might be sold, though only to a purchaser bearing the name of Murray. My father hoped to be the saviour of the place, but he died before the investments made for this purpose had grown to sufficient increase. On his deathbed he solemnly left this duty to my management; and I vowed to him to fulfil every obligation to the last tittle. I now find myself able to honour my pledge, and I am going to Scotland to do it.”

“That is right,” said the judge. “Where is this estate?”

“In the Highlands of Scotland, north of Inverness. It is a romantic country, and I expect great pleasure from the journey; especially as I hope now that Sappha may go with me; but we can decide that question when we are closer to it.”

“Certainly. You intend then to buy back the estate? Will that be of any advantage to you?”

“Not financially--just yet. But I have great faith in the future of land.”

“What will you do with it? Rent it?”

“No. The few Murrays yet remaining there would resent a stranger over them. I shall leave the oldest of the clan guardian of the place. The land will not run away. The house is built of immense blocks of granite, and may stand a thousand years. In time I shall find a profitable use for both house and land--one can always trust land.”

This subject naturally brought to discussion a home in New York, and the judge said, “As the Government House is on the point of being pulled down, I shall buy a lot on the south of the Bowling Green and build a handsome dwelling on it for Sapphira. Like you, Leonard, I have faith in land. When this part of the city ceases to be socially desirable it will become commercially valuable; and commerce pays good rentage.”

It was near midnight when all subjects growing out of this sudden change of intentions had been discussed; and the days that followed were days of hurry and happiness. But every one entered so heartily into the joyful girl’s marriage that nothing was belated or neglected, and on the evening before the desired day there was time for all to sit down and arrange the final ceremonies. It was then that Leonard put into Sappha’s hand, as he bid her good-night, the beauteous gift which is yet worn by her great-granddaughter. With a kiss and a blessing he put it into her hand, and she took it into the lighted parlour to examine. It was addressed only

“_To Sapphira, Sapphires_,”

and when the cover of the box was removed she discovered a necklace of those exquisite Asteria sapphires which have in the centre of their heavenly blue opalescence a star of six rays. The judge had already seen them. He said Leonard had bought them from a Creole jeweller in New Orleans, and that they had once belonged to a beautiful princess of Ceylon.

But whatever their history, never had they clasped the throat of a lovelier woman than Sapphira Bloommaert on the day of her wedding. The little company invited were gathered in the ordinary sitting-room of her father’s house, but the June sunshine flooded gloriously the homelike place; and Annette, who had been freely forgiven, had made it a bower of white roses. On the hearthstone stood the domine, and the bride’s mother and grandmother were on either side of him. Mr. and Mrs. Livingston, Mr. and Mrs. Morris, Annette and Achille, Peter and his betrothed, Josette Genaud, were the witnesses.

It was on her father’s arm the lovely Sapphira entered. Every one instinctively felt her approach; conversation ceased, laughter was hushed, all were at pleased attention when they heard the light footsteps and the gentle rustling of the silk wedding gown. A kind of radiance came in with her; came from her tall bright beauty, from the glow in her eyes, from her fresh, sweet face, from the warm lights about her shining hair, and the scintillating glory of the gems around her white neck. In her hand she held a perfect white rose, and either of design or by some fortunate accident she stood exactly on the spot where she had parted from Leonard with the rejected, scattered rose between them. But true love knows not rejection; from the ends of the earth it returns to its own; it cannot retain a memory of offence for ever and ever; it not only gives, but forgives.

Three hours after the ceremony the Bloommaert household were on their way to England, and Peter had charge of the house on the Bowling Green. “We shall be back in the fall of the year,” the judge said to his son, “for I have much to attend to in New York this coming winter.”

* * * * *

The judge kept his promise, but Leonard and Sappha did not return with him. Sappha had accompanied her husband to Scotland, and after his mission to the Highlands had been accomplished they lingered a while in Edinburgh. Here they met an old acquaintance who was going to Holland and Belgium, and they went with him to these countries. Then, the wander-fever being still upon Leonard, they travelled southward to France and Italy, returning to England by the usual tourist route through Switzerland. And, as at that day the facilities for travel were small, and its difficulties and hindrances for travel many and perplexing, it was more than a year before they again reached London, and turned their faces westward and homeward.

Homeward! The word tasted sweet in Sappha’s mouth. She said it over and over, and the first sight of the open arms of the low-lying American shore brought happy tears to her eyes. The Bowling Green at last! After so many strange lands, after so many wonderful days in the old, old world, here was the fresh young world, with all its splendid hopes again! The flag they loved, the homes they knew, the people who belonged to them--these things were best of all; dearest of all were the contentful sum of all their future hopes and desires. The great cities, the fairest spots in Europe, were now only as picture books and memories; but Home, Sweet Home was on Bowling Green.