ter of Lakeville, was the
central figure of the situation, and at whom the elder ladies fired
their comments and suggestions. There could be no doubt, from the
nature and tone of these remarks, that a panic was spreading.

"It's quite too bad, you know," said Mrs. Covill, an iron-grey haired
lady of decided presence and possessing a hooked nose. "I can't
understand it in a man of Mr. Grey's business-like ways. Now he's
just the sort of man whom I should have expected would have been here
at least an hour before it was necessary."

"It is just his sort that fail on these occasions," put in Mrs.
Ganthorn pessimistically. "He's just too full of business for my
fancy. What is the time now, Mr. Danvers?"

"On the stroke of the half-hour," replied the parson, with a gloomy
look. "My eyesight is not very good; can I see anything on the trail,
or is that black object a bush?"

"Bush," said some one shortly.

"Ah," ejaculated the parson. Then he turned to Mrs. Malling, who stood
beside him staring down the trail with unblinking eyes. Her lips were
pursed and twitching nervously. "There can have been no mistake about
the time, I suppose?"

"Mistake? No," retorted the good lady with irritation. "Folks don't
make no mistake about the hour of their wedding. Not the bridegroom,
anyway. No, it's an accident, that's what it is, as sure as my name's
Hephzibah Malling. And that's what comes of his staying at Ainsley
when he ought to have been hereabouts. To think of a man driving forty
odd miles to get married. La' sakes! It just makes me mad with him.
There's my girl there most ready to cry her eyes out on her wedding
morning, and small blame to her neither. It's a shame, and I'm not the
one to be likely to forget to tell him so when he comes along. If he
were my man he'd better his ways, I know."

No one replied to the old lady's heated complaint. They all too
cordially agreed with her to defend the recalcitrant bridegroom. Mr.
Danvers drew out his watch for at least the twentieth time.

"Five minutes overdue," he murmured. Then aloud and in a judicial
tone: "We must allow him some margin. But, as you say, it certainly
was a mistake his remaining at Ainsley."

"Mistake--mistake, indeed," Mrs. Malling retorted, with all the scorn
she was capable of. "He's that fool-headed that he won't listen to no
reason. Why couldn't he have stopped at the farm? Propriety--
fiddlesticks!" Her face was flushed and her brow ominously puckered