take it at once, and be done with it." He went on reading:
"'And no license to marry without banns shall be granted, unless oath
shall be first made by one of the parties that he or she believes that
there is no impediment of kindred or alliance'--well, I can take my oath
of that with a safe conscience! What next? 'And one of the said parties
must, for the space of fifteen days immediately preceding such license,
have had his or her usual place of abode within the parish or chapelry
within which such marriage is to be solemnized!' Chapelry! I'd live
fifteen days in a dog-kennel with the greatest pleasure. I say, Neelie,
all this seems like plain sailing enough. What are you shaking your head
about? Go on, and I shall see? Oh, all right; I'll go on. Here we are:
'And where one of the said parties, not being a widower or widow, shall
be under the age of twenty-one years, oath must first be made that the
consent of the person or persons whose consent is required has been
obtained, or that there is no person having authority to give such
consent. The consent required by this act is that of the father--'" At
those last formidable words Allan came to a full stop. "The consent
of the father," he repeated, with all needful seriousness of look and
manner. "I couldn't exactly swear to that, could I?"

Neelie answered in expressive silence. She handed him the pocket-book,
with the final entry completed, on the side of "Bad," in these terms:
"Our marriage is impossible, unless Allan commits perjury."

The lovers looked at each other, across the insuperable obstacle of
Blackstone, in speechless dismay.

"Shut up the book," said Neelie, resignedly. "I have no doubt we should
find the police, and the prison, and the hair-cutting--all punishments
for perjury, exactly as I told you!--if we looked at the next page. But
we needn't trouble ourselves to look; we have found out quite enough
already. It's all over with us. I must go to school on Saturday, and
you must manage to forget me as soon as you can. Perhaps we may meet in
after-life, and you may be a widower and I may be a widow, and the
cruel law may consider us emancipated, when it's too late to be of the
slightest use. By that time, no doubt, I shall be old and ugly, and you
will naturally have ceased to care about me, and it will all end in the
grave, and the sooner the better. Good-by," concluded Neelie, rising
mournfully, with the tears in her eyes. "It's only prolonging our m