In her dreams Melisande lived in a perfect world.

But now—on Caroline's wedding day—reality had risen indisputably over fantasy, and ruthlessly was preparing to stamp it out.

In the wardrobe was the dress of green silk, made to her own design, which Miss Pennifield had helped her to sew; at the neck were little bows of black velvet, and there was a big rose of black silk and velvet to wear at the waist. "Black!" Miss Pennifield had cried. "Why, it looks like mourning. Black is for funerals, not for weddings. Why don't you make a nice pink one? Roses are pink, not black, my dear. And I'll find 'ee some lovely pieces."

"There can only be black," she had said. "It is a need ... for a green gown." And she thought: For me too.

She was not quite seventeen, and that was young to despair. She wondered how old the nun had been at the time of her incarceration. She, Melisande, would this day be walled in—walled in by the death of hope.

She had not seen him alone since his return. He had not sought her, she knew, for had he wished to see her he would have found some means of doing so. He had come with wedding presents ... for Caroline. He talked with Caroline; he rode with Caroline; and that was fitting.

So clearly Melisande had meant nothing to him but a possible partner in a light adventure which he thought they might share together; Melisande had turned away and he was shrugging his shoulders as he passed on.

Now she could hear the first stirrings in the house. In the servants' hall they would be up very early. Mrs. Soady, a sedate priestess in her kitchens had been withdrawn and absentminded for days, her mouth watering at the pies and pasties she was making, the cakes, the puddings. There was hardly time to gossip with a wedding so near.

Melisande rose. She must go down to help them. It was better than lying in bed and examining lost dreams.

Caroline lay awake. She had scarcely slept all night.

The day had come—the day she had feared would never come. She had left the wardrobe door open that she might see the white dress which had been the despair of both herself and Miss Pennifield. On the dressing table was the white lace veil which had been worn by her mother and her grandmother.

She was trying to think of the future and she could only think of the past, of seeing him in London when they were children, of his teasing contempt of her, of a housemaid's whispered words on a staircase, of Melisande. But she was foolish to brood on these things. He had scarcely looked at Melisande yesterday.

She had meant to tell him, when they had ridden out alone, of the friendship between Melisande and Leon de la Roche and how it seemed to be moving towards an inevitable conclusion. But she had been afraid, lest it should spoil the happiness of her wedding eve.

She could not lie in bed ... waiting. She wanted the day to come; she wanted the ceremony to be over. For two weeks they were to stay in this house, for they had decided that there should be no honeymoon. That was a concession to convention which they had decided to make. Sir Charles had agreed that they might marry although a year had not elapsed since the death of Caroline's mother, but gaily to go off on a honeymoon was too flippant, too disrespectful. The matter had been talked over with several people, and all had agreed that the married pair should stay quietly at Trevenning for a few weeks, and then leave sedately for London.

Caroline had not cared about a honeymoon—all that mattered was that she and Fermor should marry—but now she realized she would have felt less apprehension if they could leave the house to-day ... after the ceremony and the reception.

Yet she and Melisande had become friends, and she knew that Melisande was no scheming woman. She was an impulsive girl, eager to please—a friendly, charming girl. But how much happier Caroline would be if she could say goodbye to her. With Fermor's return her jealousy had come back.

But she must not invent unhappiness. She got out of bed and going to the dressing table put on the veil. She saw from the mirror that she was very pale and there were shadows of sleeplessness under her eyes. She scarcely looked like a happy bride. Yet everything for which she had hoped promised to be hers.

The door had opened and Wenna looked in.

"My dear life! Out of bed! What be doing? Why, my queen, you look so tired. Didn't 'ee sleep then? And trying that thing on. Don't 'ee know 'tis unlucky?"

"Wenna ..."

Wenna ran forward and took Caroline in her arms.

"I'm frightened, Wenna."

"What of, my little one? Tell Wenna what's frightening 'ee? It be he. I do know."

"No. It's the future, Wenna. Everything. Nerves, Wenna ... wedding day nerves. They say people get them."

"It ain't too late, you know, my precious. If you do say the word ..."

"No, Wenna, no! Never!"

Wenna was resigned. "I'll be with 'ee, my precious. All the days of my life I'll be there beside 'ee."

The ceremony was over and there was gaiety in the house. How could it be otherwise? It was true that not a year had elapsed since the death of the mistress, and everyone knew that a year was the shortest period which should elapse between a funeral and a wedding in the same house—but it had pleased the guests to forget this.

The infectiously gay bridegroom banished all gloom. Handsome, dashing, he seemed all that a bridegroom should be.

As for Caroline, she was subdued, pale and obviously nervous, which, said the guests, was all that a bride should be.

Sir Charles was grave and clearly delighted with his daughter's marriage; the bridegroom's parents, rich and fashionable from London, were equally pleased with the match. From the surrounding county all the best families had come as guests to Trevenning; and as the friends of the bridegroom's family were also present, the house was full. Never had there been such a dazzling ceremony in the great hall, decorated as for Christmas, with holly, ivy, box and bay leaves. Christmas Day and the wedding day of the daughter of the house! What could be more demanding of ceremony ? Let gloom be banished! It was so easy to say: "I know her mother has not been gone so very long, but this is what she would have wished." They could be happy, laughing, dancing, singing, as long as they could remind themselves that in doing so they were merely carrying out the wishes of the dear one who had departed.

On the great table were bowls of punch; there was metheglin, mead, dash-an-darras, and shenegrum—that concoction of boiled beer, Jamaica rum, lemon, brown sugar and nutmeg—without which no Cornish Christmas was complete.

The table was loaded with Mrs. Soady's greatest masterpieces.

There were boars* heads, and every sort of pie that could be made; besides the usual meat pies there were fish pies containing mackerel, bream and pilchards. There were pilchards offered in every way known to Cornish connoisseurs. There were sucking pigs—both veers and slips; and of course there was hog's pudding—that Cornish delicacy—of which the Londoners took sparingly.

Harassed serving men and maids scurried about the house; from the kitchen came the last minute cakes and pies which Mrs. Soady felt must be made in case they should be short.

And after the banquet, the servants descended on the hall like a swarm of locusts and cleared everything away that the guests might dance and disport themselves as was fitting for a wedding in the family on Christmas Day.

The old dances were danced and all the company, led by the bride and groom, joined in the Quadrille and Sir Roger de Coverley; and the Cornish guests, at the request for Cornish dances, formed up and showed the foreigners the furry dance to the accompaniment provided by musicians specially engaged to play for the company.

It was a merry party.

Leon had been invited; he stayed close to Melisande and it was clear that he was enjoying the spectacle of a Cornish Christmas and wedding party.

"If you married me," he said, "there would not be such a grand occasion as this, alas."

"The grandeur would be of no importance," she told him.

"You are a little sad to-day."

"Sad? On such a day! Why should I be?"

"Perhaps because Miss Trevenning will go away now that she is married. Are you apprehensive too ... on her account?"

"Apprehensive when she is in love? That is clear. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, I agree."

"And so is he. Can you see that?"

"He? Oh, he is in love with himself."

She looked at him sharply.

"I am envious perhaps," he said. "Not of him as he is ... oh no! I do not envy him his wealth or his bride. But I wish that I had that assurance which wealth gives. I wish I had a bride who was in love with me as his is with him."

"Be careful!" she warned. "This is Cornwall where strange things happen. Piskies and fairies lurk unseen. It may be that your wishes will be granted. You may have his wealth and you may—as you say he has—fall in love with yourself."

"No doubt he found that easier than I should. For one thing he is so handsome; and for another he is so pleased with himself."

"Anyone truly in love is pleased with the object of that love, and whatever it may seem to others it is handsome to the lover. I hope Caroline will be happy."

"You speak as though you think she will not."

"I am being foolish then."

Fermor seemed to sense that they were talking of him. He smiled in their direction and then came over.

"Are you enjoying the wedding feast, Mademoiselle St. Martin?" he asked.