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It can not be said that two short minutes ago the Reverend Augustus Rycker would have married Dolly Vane at the point of the bayonet, for he was not the least in love with her, or had ever expected to be; but now, with all this sweet caressing warmth in his arms, this tender trust and simple passion thrown on him like a shower of blossoms, this sudden storming of the very citadel, there was but one thing to do—he must accept the situation; and he did.

He left that house in an hour not only an engaged man, but a man meshed in so sweet a dream, so kindled into sudden emotion, so surprised at his own possibilities, that I think one might fairly say he was in love.

But the nature of man is complex. In the very midst of his discreet and voluntary ardor, Mr. Rycker had not forgotten to charge Dolly not to show any body her valentine. He was careful both for her and himself in this matter; for he would not for a world have betrayed to her father the surprise that had beset and bewitched him, the unconscious and innocent mistake Dolly had made, to so good an ending. Indeed—lam sorry to say it of a young minister, but it is true, and shall we not let the sky fall?—he proved himself the next day, in an interview with Mr. Vane, solemnly asked and accorded, as accomplished a master of fiction as ever wrote a dime novel. He expatiated on the fascinating presence and society of Miss Vane, on his deep attachment, and his suddenly being overcome by her loveliness into a premature avowal of his sentiments, apologizing with deep humility for giving way to his emotion instead of proceeding in proper form by approaching her father first. I think he really believed all this himself before he got through; and Mr. Vane believes it to this day; so does Dolly.

There was nothing to interfere. Will wrote that he was coming home in May from China, with a wife—not a Chinese wife, but a charming English girl—so there was somebody to take care of dear papa, as Dolly fondly fancied she had done. As to dear papa’s feelings at losing his treasure, nobody seemed to care much about it. A daughter well married! That is the accomplished success of life. Step aside, 0 useless progenitors! here is a new reign, and you may abdicate. If you weep, do it decently and in seclusion: you must not damp this new happiness.

So in Easter-week Dolly was married, and in trailing robes of India muslin, and a cloud of tulle about her beautiful head, looked more child-like than ever, till she raised her lovely eyes. In their sweet, troubled depths shone the clouds of a dawn no childhood knows—the dimness of a tender doubt, a wistful prophecy, that was her transition into womanhood. Mr. Preston hobbled into the chancel to perform the service, being just able to go through with it; and Katy looked on from a side pew, wondering in her heart why some people had every thing and some nothing. It is the riddle of the Sphinx, Katy, and God alone can answer it when time shall be no more.

Dolly is flourishing now, stout, rosy, beautiful, the wife of a New York clergyman in high standing. Her children cluster about her like a group of cherubs, and she placidly pets or scolds them as the case demands. Augustus blesses the day he sent that fateful valentine, and thereby endowed his home with such a creature of down and sunshine to come back to from the frets of life—for life has frets even for him; and Dolly keeps the sacred missive laid away in a sandal-wood box, her first and last piece of sentiment.