hed upon the soul. She wondered of what Jacqueline was thinking.

The Church of Saint Margaret looked forth with a small, white-pillared
face, from a grove of oaks. It had a flowery churchyard, and around it a
white paling, keeping in the dead, and keeping out all roaming cattle.
There was a small cracked bell, and the swallows forever circled above
the eaves and in and out of the belfry. Without the yard, beneath the
oaks, were a horserack and a shed for carriages. To-day there were
horses at the rack and tied beneath the trees; coaches, chaises, and
curricles, not a few, beneath the shed and scattered through the oak
grove. The church within was all rustle and colour. Saint Margaret's had
rarely seen such a gathering, or such a wholly amicable one, for to-day
all the pews were of one party. The wedding was one to draw the curious,
the resolutely Republican, the kindred and friends of Jefferson,--who,
it was known, had sent the bride a valuable present and a long
letter,--the interested in Rand, the inimical, for party and other
reasons, to the Churchills and the Carys. The county knew that Miss
Churchill might have had Greenwood. The knowledge added piquancy to the
already piquant fact that she had chosen the house on the Three-Notched
Road. Colonel Churchill and Major Edward, the county knew, would not
come to the wedding; neither, of course, would the two Carys; neither,
it appeared, would any other Federalist. The rustling pews looked to all
four corners and saw only folk of one watchword. True, under the gallery
was to be seen Mr. Pincornet, fadedly gorgeous in an old green velvet,
but to this English stock Mr. Pincornet might give what word he chose;
he remained a French dancing master. The rustling pews nodded and smiled
to each other, waiting to see Jacqueline Churchill come up the aisle in
bridal lace. Under the gallery, not far from Mr. Pincornet, sat Adam
Gaudylock, easy and tawny, dressed as usual in his fringed
hunting-frock, with his coonskin cap in his hand, and his gun at his
feet. Beside him sat Vinie Mocket, dressed in her best. Vinie's eyes
were downcast, and her hands clasped in her lap. She wondered--poor
little partridge!--why she was there, why she had been so foolish as to
let Mr Adam persuade her into coming Vinie was afraid she was going to
cry. Yet not for worlds would she have left Saint Margaret's; she
wanted, with painful curiosity, to see the figure in bridal lace She
wondered where Tom wa