hat what he did seemed her doing.
Anyhow Annie did not say no.

The Miss Dyers remarked oracularly, when the double marriage was
announced in Redcross, that it was just what they had expected. The
observation was somewhat vague, like other oracles' speeches. The
general public of Redcross, including the Careys and Hewetts, were less
indefinite and more cordial in their expression of satisfaction at the
suitable settlement in life of the little Doctor's elder daughters.

Miss Franklin could not be too thankful and pleased that, after all, she
had done no mischief to her cousin Tom by her blunder, and by what had
been her only too personal reproaches and revelations addressed to his
future wife on the night when he was believed to be lying dying. In
fact, if she, Barbara Franklin, had not been conscious of a huge
mistake, with all the deplorable consequences it might have carried in
its train, if she had not thus been kept shamefacedly humble and silent
as to her share in the business, she might have taken credit to herself,
with greater reason than Mrs. Jennings could boast, of having united a
supremely happy couple who were drifting apart. Even if Miss Franklin's
part in it had been played voluntarily and advisedly, she would never
have cause to regret that night's work. For Dora Robinson had no scruple
in being the fast friend and affectionate cousin of her husband's
forewoman. She had no more qualm than she would have felt if Miss
Franklin had never condescended to trade, but had remained within the
bounds of poor gentility by laboriously keeping up her halting classical
music and waning foreign languages, and by continuing a finishing
governess to the day of her death--or rather till she was superannuated,
and had to retire to a too literal garret.

"Oh! Jonathan"--Mrs. Millar could not resist a long-drawn sob on the
great day of the double marriage--"it is all very well to say Annie has
got a good husband--a fine disinterested young man, certain to be
distinguished in his profession, you tell me. I believe that, and am
very thankful for it. How could I bear the parting otherwise? But to let
our eldest, our prettiest, and wittiest, with her warm heart and
untiring energy--'the flower of the flock,' as people used to call her
when the children were young--go out to Africa, it may be to meet
unheard-of trials, like your poor Aunt Penny, it may be never to see our
faces again----" Mrs. Millar could say no more.

"Hu