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120 places. An old gentleman, a distant, and yet their nearest connexion, led Ethel forward, filled only with the idea of the important situation he himself held, in having to give away the bride. There she stood, her large blue eyes dilated far beyond their usual size, fixed on vacancy. There was not a tinge of colour on a cheek usually so blooming—nay, her very lip had lost its crimson: she looked as white as her dress. Mrs. Churchill watched her anxiously: perhaps, now that it was too late, she repented having urged the match so peremptorily, as more than one doubt crossed her mind of the future happiness of her gentle and affectionate child. She saw her there—wan, wasted, broken in spirits,—a victim, rather than a bride! but such misgivings were now in vain. The clergyman had taken his place at the altar, when the attention of the party assembled was attracted to loud and unusual sounds in the churchyard. There was the galloping of horses, the clang of heavy steps and spurs, and the jingle of swords. The