today, and everything begins. It is a new sun                                                             for me—a new life. It is too much happiness
for one like me, and I feel I do not deserve it."

It was to be early. "No fuss, you know,"
said Mr. Tilney; "just quietly and nicely—
quietly and nicely. Whom He has joined, you
know, we may not put asunder; but get 'em in
quietly and nicely for a bit of something, and
then go off. God Almighty, in His infinite
mercy, bless 'em both! Keep that little
Mayonnaise cool. Ah! who is this?"

It was the captain's carriage, and the captain
himself stepping out with his bright yellow
glove on the shoulder of the servant. " 'Pon
my word," he said, " we came along in style.
That off horse is a great stepper. And I
say, my man, while we're taking care of
ourselves, I hope you'll do the same, and let me
know." And the canary-coloured glove was
laid on his waistcoat-pocket. Two fingers went
to the brims of the two hats very promptly, and
the two gentlemen, talking over the world together
on the box, agreed that this was an instance
of true, real gentlemanly feeling, now unhappily
too rare, and that others—especially a "stuck-up
old 'oss" at home—might well take pattern by
such a model.

Now on to the church, the pastoral church, of
the place, in a little procession—Mr. Tilney's
and the captain's carriage. For this day
Mr. Tilney was the father, in the highest
development. All the way, in his high-collared
coat, he was invoking fervent blessings and
"recalling the past," gliding from a blessing to a
reminiscence, and from a reminiscence to a
blessing. "Ah, dear, dear! Poor Croker. I
was just sitting by him, like this, and the Dook
behaved in the kindest, noblest manner. Gave
her a heart with an enamel thing over it, sent
only the night before. It seems like the day
before yesterday. Such is the way we go, and
so must we lie. Tillotson will make you happy,
I know. He is good. He is everything I could
wish. May the great Being bless and——Here
we are!"

Here they were at the church—of the old
country church pattern—a quiet tranquil place
of worship, which seemed to nod and doze, as
many of its rustic congregation had done during
the sultry summer evenings. There was a placid
young curate, who did most of the duty, and
was in much esteem among the decayed ladies
and gentlemen who lived in the genteel royal
hospital at the palace. Men of his age and
station were very scarce in the little settlement,
and he was a favourite guest at the "teas" in
the little cupboards. He was now to perform
the marriage rite for Mr. Tillotson and Miss
Ada Millwood.

All the honourables had heard of the event;
had heard, too, that Mr. Tilney had been about
the court in the grand old days before the
general decay of fashion, and morals, and
manners had set in.

The placid young curate was already coming
out, with a resigned and suffering bearing, and
the bridal party were ranged at the rails. The                                                       captain, with the canary gloves (a little large
and baggy on the captain's thin fingers),
stooping forward to drink in the young curate's
words with the deepest awe and reverence;
Mr. Tilney, with his head raised, repeating
words of the rite almost half aloud; and Mr.
Tillotson, with a clear brow and an air of joy.
From that morning he was to cast away all
troubles; even that dark shadow, by whatever
it was cast, was to be before his eyes no more.
The train of happy days, life itself, was coming.
Even for that church, so pastoral, so innocent,
he felt a strong affection.

It was done. The placid young curate had
all but chanted his service in a manner that
surely deserved a higher preferment. To some
of the hospitallers in the gallery he suggested
an indistinct idea of one belonging properly to
another world, whose fleshly tenement was
detained below here by the stern laws of our kind,
whose lips were, indeed, mechanically repeating
the form of words, but whose soul was above.
All this seemed to be conveyed in his sweet
and most mournful voice. The captain said it
was "the most beautiful done thing" he had
met with for a long time, and by as " well-made
a young fellow as ever put on a gown." May
we not suspect that this performance had
unconsciously an effect on the fortunes of the
young curate? for Miss Mary Sidney was in
the gallery, who, as we all know, is connected
with the noble house of that name, and who,
perceiving the divine instincts of the young
man, worked heaven and earth for him; and
it is certain that within a month he was
translated to a brighter and better living, and there
can be no question but that the Reverend Mr.
Sweetman received this reward through her
good offices.

It was now done. The admirable young
curate had retired, with a suffering and seraphic
look, as who should say or sing, " My heart is
a-weary, a-weary, and yearneth to fly away like
a bird;" and here were standing at the rails
Mr. and Mrs. Tillotson—the new Mrs.Tillotson
—the second Mrs. Tillotson—and here was Mr.
Tilney invoking blessings with all fervour, and
here was the captain wringing the second Mrs.
Tillotson's hand, on which was a bracelet bought
with the captain's own money, and which he
had cautioned the jeweller to take care should
be "tip top." The captain's simple congratulation
was worth the whole. "My dear, I
hope you will be very happy, and I know you
will."

Now we pass on into the vestry, to finish the
necessary beginning. Mr. Sweetman is there,
already unrobed, postponing "flying away like
a dove," to offer his gentle congratulations.
There were the necessary joys, with which
human creatures down in this vale of tears must
solace themselves. He could understand and
have allowance.

There was a room beyond the vestry, and
then came the outer door. The captain stole
away "to see for the carriages," for he did not
want to have the new Mrs. Tillotson kept on