hurch, stepped into the pulpit, whipped up his instrument from the
shelf where he kept it, and began to play.

Now it chanced that Mr. Bonnithorne in his legal capacity held certain
documents for signature, and having accompanied the bride to the altar
rail, he hurried to deposit them in the vestry. The gloom had still hung
heavy on his brow as he entered the church. He was brooding over a
letter that he had expected and had not received. Perhaps it was his
present hunger for a letter that made his eye light first on the one
which the fiddler-postman had left to dry. The parson had dropped it on
the mantel-shelf. At a glance Mr. Bonnithorne saw it was his own.

Tom o' Dint had been compelled to come up the aisle at the tail of the
wedding-party. He saw Mr. Bonnithorne, who was at the head of it, go
into the vestry. Dripping wet as he was, and with chattering teeth, the
sweat stood on his forehead. "Deary me, what sec a character will I
have!" he muttered. He elbowed and edged his way through the crowd, and
got into the vestry at last. But he was too late. With an eye that
struck lightning into the meek face of the fiddler, Mr. Bonnithorne
demanded an explanation.

The request was complied with.

"And who has been in the room since you left it?"

"Nay, nobody, sir."

"Sure of that?"

"For sure," said Tom.

Mr. Bonnithorne's countenance brightened. He had read the letter, and,
believing that no one else had read it, he was satisfied. He put it in
his pocket.

"Maybe I may finish drying it, sir?" said Tom o' Dint.

The lawyer gave a contemptuous snort, and turned on his heel.

When Paul walked with a firm step up the aisle, he looked fresh and
composed. His dress was simple; his eyes were clear and bright, and his
wavy brown hair fell back from a smooth and peaceful brow.

Greta, at Paul's side, looked less at ease. The clouds still hung over
her face. Her eyes turned at intervals to the door, as if expecting some
new arrival.

The service was soon done, and then the parson delivered a homily. It
was short and simple, telling how the good bishop had said marriage was
the mother of the world, filling cities and churches, and heaven itself,
whose nursery it was. Then it touched on the marriage rite.

"I do not love ceremonies," said the parson, "for they are too often
'devised to set a gloss on faint deeds,' and there are such of them as
throw the thing they celebrate further away than the wrong end of a
te