Conclusion

The New England hills were tinged with that peculiar purplish haze so
common to the Indian summer time, and the warm sunlight of November fell
softly upon Snowdon, whose streets this morning were full of eager,
expectant people, all hurrying on to the old brick church, and
quickening their steps with every stroke of the merry bell, pealing so
joyfully from the tall, dark tower.

The Richards' carriage was out, and waiting before the door of the Riverside Cottage, for the appearance of Anna, who was this morning to venture out for a short time, and leaving
her baby Hugh alone. Another, and far handsomer carriage, was standing
before the hotel, where Hugh and his mother were yet stopping, and
where, in a pleasant private room, Adah Richards helped Alice Johnson
make her neat, tasteful toilet, smoothing lovingly the rich folds of
grayish-colored silk, arranging the snowy cuffs and collar, and then
bringing the stylish hat of brown Neapolitan, with its pretty face
trimmings of blue, and declaring it a shame to cover up the curls of
golden hair falling so luxuriously about the face and neck of the
blushing bride.

For it was Alice's wedding day, and in the room
adjoining, Hugh Worthington stood, waiting impatiently the opening of
the mysterious door which Adah had shut against him, and wondering if,
after all, it were not a dream that the time was coming fast when
neither bolts nor locks would have a right to keep him from his wife.