It is a miserable present, but I have no time,
and no judgment."

"It is superb," said she, taking out the
jewels, which were magnificent, "and I am so
happy!"

Captain Hallam was come for her. The
carriages were waiting.

The little church was charming. The flowers
seemed to have bloomed from the night before.
They clustered over the pillars. The villagers
filled the aisles. The young girls looked
wistfully on, thinking, as every young girl
does, of another picture where they would
be the chief figure. Of all the pageants
in life's many pageants and shows, this,
perhaps, is the most interesting. The greatest
churl among the spectators feels that this is
not a mere scene in a play. Long after, when
the last act has nearly begun, the "actress"
looks back to that morning, and sees herself
through a soft cloud on that morning, and
thinks herself another being. Oh, how young!
how pretty! how fresh! And how bright and
fairy-like everything all round. It seems as
far off as last year, and she turns (by instinct)
to look into that glass over the chimney-piece!

Mr. Winter was the celebrant of the office, and
was "assisted" by a good-humoured clergyman,
the Rev. John Hallam, brother, as we may
suppose, to the captain. The friends drew in close
as the clergymen began their combined labours.
Even at that moment the quick eyes of Lucy,
darting about, saw that Colonel Howard was
not there, though the little bright face of his
son was to be seen, studying, with an absorbing
interest, some mechanical arrangements on the
stair of the pulpit. Andy, too, could be seen
afar off, towards "lookin' in" at the business
with a dry, serious, and inquiring look. He had
just "run down from the masther."

It was done now. The combined efforts of
the two clergymen had succeeded, and Lucy
and her lover, Captain and Mrs. Hallam, were
walking away in a sort of reverential bearing.
There was signing in the vestry, congratulations,
kisses so fervent, whispered "darlings!"
"my pets." Then a coming out and taking off
hats, and driving away. Then there was the
house again, Arbour Hill; and Lucy, bounding
from the carriage, fluttered straight to Colonel
Howard's room.

He was on the sofa, and languid and pale.
After he had wished her all blessings and
happiness, " My dear child, my dear Lucy Hallam"
—he said this very tenderly—"when it came to
the last moment, then I found I had not strength,
though I tried very hard. My little man will
be here, I suppose, presently."

Then they all came home with a sort of
dropping fire. Our doctor, who had hoped
to be there, was kept away by professional
duty, which came most awkwardly. Then the
breakfast set in.

That, too, was of a very cheerful and festive
pattern. Such things in the country have a
tone of their own quite unique. That, too, is
a picture to be looked back on in those coming
days when we shall be looking into the drawing-
room mirror, waiting for our married son and
his children to come to dinner on, say, a
Christmas. The affectionate voices, the fervent
wishes, the genuine speeches, so different from
other speeches over wine—these come back like
the chime of the Christmas bells we have heard
overnight.

There was a health or two, and a speech,
kindly but hurried; for time was pressing, and
a train was to be watched for. Edward Howard
did this duty in a pleasant buoyant fashion, which
kept away the faint clouds of gloom that were
seen gathering. His fair handsome face grew
bright and animated as he spoke. He told of
the bride's virtues, of the love they all bore
to her, of her smile that lit up that house and
delighted all who came within its charm—her
cheerful spirit, which made all happy. There
was the loss—but there was gain for another,
who had secured a prize. Then there was
another, who was not with them at that
moment, but whose heart was with them, and
who had tried to be of their company. He
knew him, and never so well, added Edward
Howard, with a sudden hoarseness in his throat,
as within a day or two—he never knew what
were his virtues and his affection. However,
it was not too late then.

During this speech the servants had gathered
at the door, and were listening. Round the
table were handkerchiefs very busy. The "little
man" had listened with an air of deep attention,.
"taking it all in:" he was very happy, too, and
had been supplied with wedding-cake under
tolerably small restraint. Yet he was a little
gentleman, and had trained himself not to
indulge in excesses which he found but too
common among his contemporaries. When Edward
had finished speaking of Colonel Howard, the
little man softly stole from the room—not as
some unfairly suspected, because of the richness
of the cake—but to pay a visit to his father.
In a very few moments he came back, with a
strange look of mystery and importance on his
little face, got beside Lucy and her husband,
and whispered eagerly:

"Papa is so much obliged for your kind
reception of his name—those were his words—
and wishes he was here himself to thank you
all."

"Why not tell these ladies and gentlemen,
my boy?" said the captain. "Would you be
afraid?"

"Afraid, no; papa gave the message."

In a moment there was a silence, and with
his face modestly bent upon the tablecloth, the
little man repeated the same words, and gave
them his papa's message.

"Ah, listen to the darling!" was said among
the maids at the door; "listen to him now."

"Shure he's wiser," said Andy, almost
contemptuously at their surprise, "than a grown
Christian!"

But the hour had now come. There was a
general rising up—a rushing away for some last
preparation—and more tears and embracing. The