“Nothing， my dear—nothing，” said the widow； then，whispering close to her ear， “There is a foolish fancythat I cannot get rid of. I am expecting my bridegroomto come into the church with my two first husbands forgroomsmen.”
“Look！ look！” screamed the bridemaid. “What is here？
The funeral！”
As she spoke a dark procession paced into the church.
First came an old man and woman， like chief mournersat a funeral， attired from head to foot in the deepestblack， all but their pale features and hoary hair， he leaningon a staff and supporting her decrepit form with hisnerveless arm. Behind appeared another and anotherpair， as aged， as black and mournful as the first. As theydrew near the widow recognized in every face some traitof former friends long forgotten， but now returning asif from their old graves to warn her to prepare a shroud，or， with purpose almost as unwelcome， to exhibit theirwrinkles and infirmity and claim her as their companion bythe tokens of her own decay. Many a merry night had shedanced with them in youth， and now in joyless age she feltthat some withered partner should request her hand and allunite in a dance of death to the music of the funeral-bell.
While these aged mourners were passing up the aisleit was observed that from pew to pew the spectatorsshuddered with irrepressible awe as some object hithertoconcealed by the intervening figures came full in sight.
Many turned away their faces； others kept a fixed and rigidstare， and a young girl giggled hysterically and fainted withthe laughter on her lips. When the spectral processionapproached the altar， each couple separated and slowlydiverged， till in the centre appeared a form that had beenworthily ushered in with all this gloomy pomp， the deathknelland the funeral. It was the bridegroom in his shroud.
No garb but that of the grave could have befittedsuch a death-like aspect. The eyes， indeed， had the wildgleam of a sepulchral lamp； all else was fixed in the sterncalmness which old men wear in the coffin. The corpsestood motionless， but addressed the widow in accentsthat seemed to melt into the clang of the bell， which fellheavily on the air while he spoke.
“Come， my bride！” said those pale lips. “The hearse isready； the sexton stands waiting for us at the door of thetomb. Let us be married， and then to our coffins！”
How shall the widow’s horror be represented？ It gave herthe ghastliness of a dead man’s bride. Her youthful friendsstood apart， shuddering at the mourners， the shroudedbridegroom and herself； the whole scene expressed by thestrongest imagery the vain struggle of the gilded vanitiesof this world when opposed to age， infirmity， sorrow anddeath.
The awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman.
“Mr. Ellenwood，” said he， soothingly， yet with somewhatof authority， “you are not well. Your mind has beenagitated by the unusual circumstances in which you areplaced. The ceremony must be deferred. As an old friend，let me entreat you to return home.”
