our shrubs and flowers had betaken themselves; every pew was closely
packed with quiet, well-dressed people; and the organ was pealing forth
some grand old masterpiece which filled the church with melody.

My father, in his robe as D.D., with his curate at hand to assist, stood
within the altar-railing in readiness to commence the ceremony; while--
but avast! what nautical pen can hope to adequately describe a wedding,
with its blushing bride, its blooming bridesmaids, its flowers and tears
and kisses and congratulations, and all the rest of it? Suffice it to
say that Florrie looked lovely, that Annesley--after his first
flusteration was over--never looked more quiet, self-possessed, and
handsome than he did that morning; and that everybody pronounced it to
be "a sweetly pretty wedding;" and there you have all I can tell you
about it.

The register signed, we weighed in succession, and all trundled home to
the rectory, Annesley with his prize leading the van. And then there
was, of course, the breakfast--of which I, for one, ate very little--and
the speechifying afterwards, and what not; and then the happy couple
retired for a time, appearing again in travelling attire; then there was
the half-laughing, half-tearful "good-bye," the descent of all hands in
a body to the door, where Annesley's handsome travelling-carriage and
four stood in readiness; then more good-byes; and finally the departure,
in the midst of a perfect storm of cheers and old shoes--all in regular
order. After which the guests seemed to feel more at ease, and we ended
all by having a regular jollification.

The next few days were devoted to a general clearing up of the wreck and
getting things back into their proper places again, after which the
house settled down once more into its wonted peace and quietness, pretty
much as though--except for the absence of one fair face from the family
table--such things as weddings were unknown.

And now, dear reader, my tale is told--my yarn is spun; and I have
finished off in the orthodox form with a wedding, which seems to be the
inevitable and only correct way in which a story can be brought to a
symmetrical conclusion. Nothing remains but to say Farewell, which,
believe me, I do with reluctance, sincerely hoping that an opportunity
may yet occur for us to renew our acquaintance. *Farewell*.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Under the Meteor Flag, by Harry Collingwood

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