They appealed to each, other, and to a
sympathising audience round a tea–table
specially spread, directly authentic confirmation
of the news of the intended marriage
was received, whether they had not always
said that, "That girl's heart was set on
money!" That it would take some one
"wi' pounds an' pounds!" to win her, and
they had proved right, and she were now
going to be made mistress of Woolgreaves,
eh? Money enough there, as Mrs. Whicher
told Mrs. M'Shaw, to satisfy even her longing
for riches. "But it's not all gold that
glitters," said the thrifty housewife "and
it's not all sunshine even then. There's
givin' up liberty, and such like, to who?
It 'minds me of the story of a man as cam'
to market wi' a cart–load o' cheeses and
grindstones. The cheeses was that beautiful
that every one wanted they, but no one
bought the grindstones; so seein' this the
man, who were from where your husband
comes from, Mrs. M'Shaw, the north, he
said, he wouldn't sell 'ere a cheese unless
they bought a grindstone at the same time,
and so he cleared off the lot! I'm thinkin'
that wi' Marian Ashurst the money's the
cheese, but she can't take that wi'out the old
man, the grindstone!" Scarcely anything
was said about the singularity of the
circumstance that a pretty girl like Marian had
not had any lovers. Mrs. Croke remarked
that once she thought there would be
"something between" Marian and "that young
Joyce," but she was promptly put down;
Mrs. Whicher observing, scornfully, that a
girl with Marian's notions of money wasn't
likely to have "taken up wi' an usher;"
and Mrs. Baker, little Sam's mother,
declaring it would have been an awful thing,
if true, as she was given to understand that
young Joyce had "leff' for a soldier," and
the last thing heard of him was that he had
actually 'listed.

The wedding–day arrived, to Marian's
intense relief. She had been haunted by
an odd feeling that Walter Joyce might
even come to see her, or, at all events,
might write to her, either to induce her to
change her resolution or to upbraid her
with her perfidy. But he had made no
sign, and there was no chance of his doing
so now. She was perfectly calm and
composed, had steadily contemplated her future,
and had made up her mind as to her
intended disposal of various persons so soon
as she commenced her new path in life.
That would not be just yet; they were going
away for a fortnight to the seaside, Mrs.
Ashurst being left to the care of the girls,
who were delighted at the charge. Maud
and Gertrude were to be bridesmaids, and
no one else was to be officially present at
the ceremony save Dr. Osborne, who, as
Marian's oldest friend, was to give her
away. The little doctor was in the greatest
delight at the match, which he looked upon
as being somewhat of his own making,
though he thought it the best joke in the
world to rally Marian by telling her that
"her housekeeper project was a much better
one than his! He had only thought Mrs.
Ashurst might succeed Mrs.Caddy, for a
little time, but by George! little Marian
all the time intended to make herself head
of the house for life!" The villagers,
however, were not to be baulked of their
ceremonial, the bells were rung, general holiday
was made, and Marian Creswell, leaning on
her husband's arm, walked from the church
on flowers strewn on the path, by the girls
who a few years before had been her
schoolfellows.

"What an incongruous time for such a
letter to arrive!" said Mr. Creswell to
Marian, as they were waiting for the
carriage to drive to the railway, handing her a
paper. She took it, and read:

"DEAR SIR,—General E. will be about
six weeks hence. Please be prepared. We
calculate on you for B.
"Yours truly,
"J. GOULD."

"I can't understand it," said Marian.
"Who is General E., and where will he be
about six weeks hence? Why are you to
be prepared, and what is B. that they
calculate on you for?"

"General E.," said Mr. Creswell, laughing,"
is the general election, and B. is
Brocksopp, for which borough I've promised
to stand. However, there's enough of that
now! My darling, I hope you will never
regret this day!"

"I am certain I shall not!" she replied,
quite calmly.

ROBERT KEELEY.

"THERE is something strange as well as sad
in seeing actors—your pleasant fellows
particularly—subjected to and suffering the common
lot; their fortunes, their casualties, their
deaths, seem to belong to the scene; their
actions to be amenable to poetic justice only.
We can hardly connect them with more awful
responsibilities."

So wrote the peerless English essayist,
Charles Lamb, of one of the most original and
quaint, as stage records tell us, of English low