thers are
resting a moment--we and our coadjutors. For we have _two_ coadjutors.
Mr. Musgrave, of course. Now, at this moment, through the gray light,
and across the candles, I can see him leaning against the font, while
Barbara kneels with bent head at his feet, completing the ornamentation
of the pedestal. I always knew that things would come right if we waited
long enough, and _coming_ right they are--_coming_, not _come_, for
still, he has not spoken. I have consulted each and all of my family,
father excepted, as to the average length of time allotted to _unspoken_
courtship, and each has assigned a different period; the _longest_,
however, has been already far exceeded by Frank. Tou Tou, indeed,
adduces a gloomy case of a young man, who spent two years and a half in
dumb longing, and broke a blood-vessel and died at the end of them; but
this is so discouraging an anecdote, that we all poo-poohed it as
unauthentic.

"Perhaps he does not mean to speak at all!" says the Brat, starting a
new and hazardous idea; "perhaps he means to take it for granted!"

"Walk out with her, some fine morning," says Algy, laughing, "and say,
like Wemmick, 'Hallo! here's a church! let's have a wedding!'"

"It would be a good thing," retorts the Brat, gravely, "if there were a
printed form for such occasions; it would be a great relief to people."

This talk did not happen in the church, but at an evening _seance_
overnight. Our second coadjutor is Mrs. Huntley.

"I am afraid I am not very efficient," she says, with a pathetic smile.
"I can't _stand_ very long, but, if I might be allowed to sit down now
and then, I might perhaps be some little help."

And sat down she has, accordingly, ever since, on the top pulpit-step.
It seems that Algy cannot stand very long, either; for he has taken
possession of the step next below the top one, and there he abides.
Thank Heaven! they are getting dark now! If _legitimate_ lovers, whose
cooing is desirable and approved, are a sickly and sickening spectacle,
surely the sight of illegitimate lovers would make the blood boil in the
veins of Moses, Miriam, or Job.

Bobby, Tou Tou, and I, having no one to hang over us, or gawk amorously
up at us, are sitting in a row in our pew. Bobby has garlanded Tou Tou
preposterously with laurel, to give us an idea, as he says, of how he
himself will look by-and-by, after some future Trafalgar. Now, he is
whispering to me--a whisper accompanied by one of those