Laura Jean Libbey

Kidnapped At The Altar Laura Jean Libbey

It was a magnificent evening, in balmy June, on the far-famed St. Lawrence. The steamer "St. Lawrence" was making her nightly search-light excursion down the bay, laden to her utmost capacity. The passengers were all summer tourists, light of heart and gay of speech; all save one, Hubert Varrick, a young and handsome man, dressed in the height of fashion, who held aloof from the rest, and who stood leaning carelessly against the taffrail. The steamer was making its way in and out of the thousand green isles, the great light from the pilot-house suddenly throwing a broad, illuminating flash first on this and then on that. As the light swept across land and water from point to point, Varrick lightly laughed aloud at the ludicrous incidents, such as the sudden flashing of the light's piercing rays on some lover's nook, where two souls indulging in but one thought were ruthlessly awakened from sweet seclusion to the most glaring publicity, and at many a novel sight, little dreaming that at every turn of the ponderous wheels he was nearing his destiny. "Where are we now?" he inquired of a deck-hand. "At Fisher's Landing, sir." The words had scarcely left his lips ere a radiant flood of electric light swept over the jutting bit of mainland. In that instantaneous white glare Varrick saw a sight that was indelibly engraved upon his memory while life lasted. The dock was deserted by all save one person-a young girl, waving her hand toward the steamer.