ow, and diving for papers into his pocket.

The procession, headed by Tom o' Dint, had not long been gone, when word
was given, and the party took to the coaches and set off at a trot. Then
the group of women at the gate separated with many a sapient comment.

"Weel, he's getten a bonny lass, for sure."

"And many a sadder thing med happen to her, too."

The village lay midway between the vicarage and the church, and the
fiddler and his company marched through it to a brisk tune, bringing
fifty pairs of curious eyes to the windows and the doors. Tom o' Dint
sat erect in the saddle, playing vigorously, and when a burst of
cheering hailed the procession as it passed a group of topers gathered
outside the Flying Horse, Tom accepted it as a tribute to his playing,
and bowed his head with becoming dignity, and without undue familiarity,
always remembering that courtesy comes after art, as a true artist is in
loyalty bound to do.

Once or twice the pony slipped its foot on the frosty road, and then Tom
was fain to abridge a movement in music and make a movement in
gymnastics toward grasping the front of the saddle.

But all went well until the company came within fifty paces of the
church door, and there a river crossed the road. Being shallow and very
swift, the river head escaped the grip of the frost, and slipped through
its fingers. There was a foot-bridge on one side, and the men behind the
fiddler fell out of line to cross by it.

Gubblum dropped the reins and followed them; but, as bridges are not
made for the traffic of ponies, Tom o' Dint was bound to go through the
water. Never interrupting the sweep and swirl of the march he was
playing, he gave the pony a prod with his foot, and it plunged in. But
scarcely had it taken two steps and reached the depth of its knees,
when, from the intenser cold, or from coming sharply against a submerged
stone, or from indignation at the fiddler's prod, or from the occult
cause known as pure devilment, it shied up its back legs, and tossed
down its tousled head, and pitched the musician head-foremost into the
stream.

Amid a burst of derisive cheers, Tom o' Dint was drawn, wet as a sack,
to the opposite bank, and his fiddle was rescued from a rapid voyage
down the river.

Now, the untoward adventure had the good effect of reducing the
fiddler's sense of the importance of his artistic function, and bringing
him back to consciousness of his prosaic duties as postman. He put