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Bind the white orange-flowers in her hair, Soft be their shadow, soft and somewhat pale— For they are omens. Many anxious years Are on the wreath that bends the bridal veil.

The maiden leaves her childhood and her home, All that the past has known of happy hours— Perhaps her happiest ones. Well may there be   A faint wan colour on those orange-flowers:

For they are pale as hope, and hope is pale With earnest watching over future years; With all the promise of their loveliness, The bride and morning bathe their wreath with tears.

was yet kneeling when Mrs. Courtenaye entered, who was wholly softened by the attitude, and the tearful eyes that met her as she approached. She did not like Constance: there was a timidity and a gentleness about her, which, to her calm and determined