fter he had shaken himself free from
his dripping cloak he looked at the men around him, and his eyes fell
upon John. And probably all the circumstances of that marriage were
either well known or accurately divined, for he took the big fisherman
by the hand and said cheerfully:

"John Penelles, I am glad, very glad indeed to meet you. I suppose you
know that it was I who married your daughter?"

If a fixed star had fallen at John's feet he could not have been more
amazed. His large face lightened from within, he clasped firmly the
preacher's hand, but was so slow in forcing speech from his swelling
heart that the preacher continued:

"Yes, they came to me, and I remembered your pretty child. I tied
them true and fast, you may be sure of that, John."

"Where, sir?"

"In Plymouth Wesleyan chapel, to be sure."

"Thank God! Thank you too, sir! You might say so--some people here be
slow to believe, sir, and it be breaking my heart, it be indeed,
sir."

There was only a nod and smile in reply, but John was extremely
happy. He tried to get near to Joan and tell her; but the aisles were
full and the service was beginning. John held his own service, and
the singing, and the prayer, and preaching were just a joyful
accompaniment to the thanksgiving in his heart. At length the
service was over, and the preacher lifted a number of slips of paper
and began to read aloud the announcements made on them. Missionary
meetings, tea meetings for missions, a bazaar at St. Penfer for
missions, a Bible meeting, a class meeting, and the service for that
evening. Then, while the congregation were still expectant, he said
in a clear, pleasant voice:

"I am requested also to say that on December the 17th, on Tuesday
morning at nine o'clock, I united in the holy bands of marriage
Denasia, the daughter of John Penelles, fisher of St. Penfer, to
Roland Tresham, gentleman of that place. The ceremony was performed by
me in the Wesleyan chapel at Plymouth; myself, my wife, and two
daughters being witnesses to it. We will now sing the 444th hymn:

"'Lord over all, if Thou hast made,
Hast ransomed every soul of man.'"

And all the congregation rose, and in the rising the conscious glance
that passed through the chapel was lost in a more general purpose. It
was presumed, at least, that everyone was singing a prayer for the
heathen. Only Joan Penelles made no effort to think of India or
Africa. Her face, full of radiant assurance, looked