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violent agitation there is no color to be seen in her face。 Her
eyes are of so dark a blue that they are generally mistaken for
black。 Her eyebrows are well enough in form； but they are too
dark and too strongly marked。 Her nose just inclines toward the
aquiline bend； and is considered a little too large by persons
difficult to please in the matter of noses。 The mouth； her best
feature； is very delicately shaped； and is capable of presenting
great varieties of expression。 As to the face in general； it is
too narrow and too long at the lower part； too broad and too low
in the higher regions of the eyes and the head。 The whole
picture； as reflected in the glass； represents a woman of some
elegance； rather too pale； and rather too sedate and serious in
her moments of silence and reposein short； a person who fails
to strike the ordinary observer at first sight； but who gains in
general estimation on a second； and sometimes on a third view。 As
for her dress； it studiously conceals； instead of proclaiming；
that she has been married that morning。 She wears a gray cashmere
tunic trimmed with gray silk； and having a skirt of the same
material and color beneath it。 On her head is a bonnet to match；
relieved by a quilling of white muslin with one deep red rose； as
a morsel of positive color； to complete the effect of the whole
dress。
Have I succeeded or failed in describing the picture of myself
which I see in the glass？ It is not for me to say。 I have done my
best to keep clear of the two vanitiesthe vanity of
depreciating and the vanity of praising my own personal
appearance。 For the rest； well written or badly written； thank
Heaven it is done！
And whom do I see in the glass standing by my side？
I see a man who is not quite so tall as I am； and who has the
misfortune of looking older than his years。 His forehead is
prematurely bald。 His big chestnut…colored beard and his long
overhanging mustache are prematurely streaked with gray。 He has
the color in the face which my face wants； and the firmness in
his figure which my figure wants。 He looks at me with the
tenderest and gentlest eyes （of a light brown） that I ever saw in
the countenance of a man。 His smile is rare and sweet； his
manner； perfectly quiet and retiring； has yet a latent
persuasiveness in it which is （to women） irresistibly winning。 He
just halts a little in his walk； from the effect of an injury
received in past years； when he was a soldier serving in India；
and he carries a thick bamboo cane； with a curious crutch handle
（an old favorite）； to help himself along whenever he gets on his
feet； in doors or out。 With this one little drawback （if it is a
drawback）； there is nothing infirm or old or awkward about him；
his slight limp when he walks has （perhaps to my partial eyes） a
certain quaint grace of its own； which is pleasanter to see than
the unrestrained activity of other men。 And last and best of all；
I love him！ I love him！ I love him！ And there is an end of my
portrait of my husband on our wedding…day。
The glass has told me all I want to know。 We leave the vestry at
last。
The sky； cloudy since the morning； has darkened while we have
been in the church； and the rain is beginning to fall heavily。
The idlers outside stare at us grimly under their umbrellas as we
pass through their ranks and hasten into our carriage。 No
cheering； no sunshine； no flowers strewn in our path； no grand
breakfast； no genial speeches； no bridesmaids； no fathers or
mother's blessing。 A dreary weddingthere is no denying itand
（if Aunt Starkweather is right） a bad beginning as well！
A _coup_ has been reserved for us at the railway station。 The
attentive porter； on the look…out for his fee pulls down the
blinds over the side windows of the carriage； and shuts out all
prying eyes in that way。 After what seems to be an interminable
delay the train starts。 My husband winds his arm round me。 〃At
last！〃 he whispers； with love in his eyes that no words can
utter； and presses me to him gently。 My arm steals round his
neck； my eyes answer his eyes。 Our lips meet in the first long；
lingering kiss of our married life。
Oh； what recollections of that journey rise in me as I write！ Let
me dry my eyes； and shut up my paper for the day。
CHAPTER II。
THE BRIDE'S THOUGHTS。
WE had been traveling for a little more than an hour when a
change passed insensibly over us both。
Still sitting close together； with my hand in his； with my head
on his shoulder； little by little we fell insensibly into
silence。 Had we already exhausted the narrow yet eloquent
vocabulary of love？ Or had we determined by unexpressed consent；
after enjoying the luxury of passion that speaks； to try the
deeper and finer rapture of passion that thinks？ I can hardly
determine； I only know that a time came when； under some strange
influence； our lips were closed toward each other。 We traveled
along； each of us absorbed in our own reverie。 Was he thinking
exclusively of meas I was thinking exclusively of him？ Before
the journey's end I had my doubts； at a little later time I knew
for certain that his thoughts； wandering far away from his young
wife； were all turned inward on his own unhappy self。
For me the secret pleasure of filling my mind with him； while I
felt him by my side； was a luxury in itself。
I pictured in my thoughts our first meeting in the neighborhood
of my uncle's house。
Our famous north…country trout stream wound its flashing and
foaming way through a ravine in the rocky moorland。 It was a
windy； shadowy evening。 A heavily clouded sunset lay low and red
in the west。 A solitary angler stood casting his fly at a turn in
the stream where the backwater lay still and deep under an
overhanging bank。 A girl （myself） standing on the bank； invisible
to the fisherman beneath； waited eagerly to see the trout rise。
The moment came； the fish took the fly。
Sometimes on the little level strip of sand at the foot of the
bank； sometimes （when the stream turned again） in the shallower
water rushing over its rocky bed； the angler followed the
captured trout； now letting the line run out and now winding it
in again； in the difficult and delicate process of 〃playing〃 the
fish。 Along the bank I followed to watch the contest of skill and
cunning between the man and the trout。 I had lived long enough
with my uncle Starkweather to catch some of his enthusiasm for
field sports； and to learn something； especially； of the angler's
art。 Still following the stranger； with my eyes intently fixed on
every movement of his rod and line； and with not so much as a
chance fragment of my attention to spare for the rough path along
which I was walking； I stepped by chance on the loose overhanging
earth at the edge of the bank； and fell into the stream in an
instant。
The distance was trifling； the water was shallow； the bed of the
river was （fortunately for me） of sand。 Beyond the fright and the
wetting I had nothing to complain of。 In a few moments I was out
of the water and up again； very much ashamed of myself； on the
firm ground。 Short as the interval was； it proved long enough to
favor the escape of the fish。 The angler