As Stuart and his best man entered from a side door and took their places at the altar in front of the old minister, the rest of the bridal party came down the stairs: Betty and Miles Bradford first, Joyce and Rob, then the maid of honor walking alone with her armful of roses.

After her came the bride with her hand on her father's arm.
Just at that instant some one outside drew back the shutters in the bay-window, and a flood of late afternoon sunshine streamed across the room, the last golden rays of the perfect June day making a path of light from the gate of roses to the white altar.

It shone full across Eugenia's face, down on the long-trained shimmering satin, the little gleaming slippers, the filmy veil that enveloped her, the pearls that glimmered white on her white throat.
Eliot, standing in a corner, nervously watching every movement with twitching lips, relaxed into a smile.

"It's a good omen!" she said, half under her breath, then gave a startled glance around to see if any one had heard her speak at such an improper time.
The music grew softer now, so faint and low it seemed the mere shadow of sound.

Above the rare sweetness of that undertone of harp and violins rose the words of the ceremony: "_I, Stuart, take thee, Eugenia, to be my wedded wife_." Mary, standing at her post by the rose gate, felt a queer little chill creep over her.