wardrobe as much in the mountains as in towns—
perhaps more.

Whenever the young carpenter, Raven,
came up to see his betrothed, he found her
sewing, and some pretty print, or muslin,
or bit of gay silk lying about. It was all
very pleasant. The whole winter went off
pleasantly, except for some shadow of trouble
now and then, which soon passed away. For
instance, Raven was once absent longer than
usual, by full three days; and when he did
come, there were marks left which told that
he had staid away because he had been
ashamed of two black eyes.

"He had been drinking, I dare say," said
Mrs. Fell to Janet afterwards, with the air of
indifference with which drunkenness is apt to
be spoken of in the district. " I don't wonder
he did not like to show himself."

"I don't think it is his way," observed
Janet.

"No; it is not a habit with him; and they
all do get too much, now and then— two or
three times a year— and it will be seldomer
than that when he comes to live up here."

Raven was to be adopted as a son, on
marrying the only child, and it was very
right; for Fell was growing old; and he was
more feeble than his years warranted.
Rheumatism plagued him in the winter, and he
was overworked in the summer. Raven
would help to manage the little farm, and he
would do all the carpentering work, and put
the whole place in repair, outside and in.
Everything was to go well after the wedding.

Sally, the bridesmaid, came in good time
to put the orange flowers into her coarse
Dunstable bonnet, which streamed with white
ribbons. It was a fine April morning, when
the party set off down the mountain for their
walk of three miles to the chapel. The
mother remained at home. When Fell
returned, he told her it had gone off extremely
well, and the clergyman had spoken very
kindly; and that Fleming's cart was ready,
as had been promised, to take the young
people to the town where they were to be
entertained at dinner. It was all right, and
very pleasant. And the old people sat down
to dinner, dressed in their best, and saying,
many times over, that it was all right with
them, and very pleasant. The only thing was
—if Raven's name had but been Fell! The
Fells having lived here for five hundred
years——

"The family, but not always the name,"
the wife observed. There was a Bell that
lived here once; and the land would be in
the family still, in the best way it could, as
they had no children but Janet.

Well; that was true, Fell agreed; and it
was all right, and very pleasant.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

That evening, three ladies went up to the
chapel to see the sunset from the churchyard,
which commanded an exquisite view.
It was a place in which, at such an hour, it
was easy to forget, even with the graves
before their eyes, that there was sin or sorrow
in the world. The ladies sat on the steps till
the last glow had faded from the clouds, and
the mountains stood up, clear and solemn,
against a green sky, from which every tinge
of sunset had vanished; and then they came
down, with thoughts as bright and calm as
the stars which were beginning to come out
overhead. When they entered on a long
stretch of straight road, they saw before them
an odd-looking group. In the dusk it seemed
as if a man and a woman were carrying something
very heavy,—moving towards them at
a pace hopelessly slow. A woman was some
way in advance of them,—loitering and looking
back. When they came up to her, it
was a young woman, with orange flowers
in her bonnet, and a smart white shawl on
her shoulders. She was carrying a man's
hat, new, but half covered with mud. It was
now too clear that the heavy thing which the
other two were trying to haul along was a
man. Never did man look more like a brute.
His face, when it could be seen, was odious;
swollen, purple, without a trace of reason or
feeling left in it; but his head hung so low,
with his long black hair dipping on the
ground, that it was not easy to see his face.
His legs trailed behind him, and his new
clothes were spattered with dirt.

"It looks like apoplexy," said the elder
lady to her companions: and she asked the
young woman who was carrying the hat,
whether the man was in a fit.

"No, ma'am; he has only been overcome.
It is his wedding. He was married this
morning."

"Married this morning! And is that his
wife?"

"Yes, ma'am; and the other is
bridegroom's man."

It would have touched any heart to see
poor Janet, as the ladies passed,—her honest
sun-burned face, all framed in orange flowers,
grave and quiet, while she put forth her
utmost strength (which was not small) to
hold up her wretched husband from the dirt
of the road. The other man was a comely
youth, dressed in his best, with a new plaid
fastened across his breast. The ladies looked
back, and saw that it would never do. The
elder lady returned, and laying her hand on
the poor young woman's shoulder, said,

"This is no work for you. It is too much
for you. Let him lie, while I speak to the
people at this farm-house. I know them;
and they will send a man to take him into
the house."

Poor Janet spoke very calmly when she
said they could take him a little further; but
her lips quivered slightly. The lady spoke to
a man who was feeding calves in a stable;
and asked him to help to dip the bridegroom's
head in a cistern by the road- side, and then
take him into the house.