o get some
formidable piece of business over. I put her into the fiacre. M.
Vandenhuten received her, and seated her beside himself; we drove all
together to the Protestant chapel, went through a certain service in the
Common Prayer Book, and she and I came out married. M. Vandenhuten had
given the bride away.

We took no bridal trip; our modesty, screened by the peaceful obscurity
of our station, and the pleasant isolation of our circumstances, did not
exact that additional precaution. We repaired at once to a small house
I had taken in the faubourg nearest to that part of the city where the
scene of our avocations lay.

Three or four hours after the wedding ceremony, Frances, divested of her
bridal snow, and attired in a pretty lilac gown of warmer materials,
a piquant black silk apron, and a lace collar with some finishing
decoration of lilac ribbon, was kneeling on the carpet of a neatly
furnished though not spacious parlour, arranging on the shelves of a
chiffoniere some books, which I handed to her from the table. It was
snowing fast out of doors; the afternoon had turned out wild and
cold; the leaden sky seemed full of drifts, and the street was already
ankle-deep in the white downfall. Our fire burned bright, our new
habitation looked brilliantly clean and fresh, the furniture was all
arranged, and there were but some articles of glass, china, books,
&c., to put in order. Frances found in this business occupation till
tea-time, and then, after I had distinctly instructed her how to make
a cup of tea in rational English style, and after she had got over the
dismay occasioned by seeing such an extravagant amount of material put
into the pot, she administered to me a proper British repast, at which
there wanted neither candies nor urn, fire-light nor comfort.

Our week's holiday glided by, and we readdressed ourselves to labour.
Both my wife and I began in good earnest with the notion that we were
working people, destined to earn our bread by exertion, and that of the
most assiduous kind. Our days were thoroughly occupied; we used to part
every morning at eight o'clock, and not meet again till five P.M.; but
into what sweet rest did the turmoil of each busy day decline! Looking
down the vista, of memory, I see the evenings passed in that little
parlour like a long string of rubies circling the dusk brow of the past.
Unvaried were they as each cut gem, and like each gem brilliant and
burning.

A year and a half