How sadly Honor walked back to the Cottage! Guy was sitting on a sunny bench on the edge of the common, and sprang up with a half-jesting reproval on his lips as she came towards him. It died away as he caught sight of her tired

face.

"My darling, what have you been doing with yourself?" he exclaimed, drawing her down beside him.

'Oh, Guy, if I were ever to leave you as poor Esther is leaving her husband!" And Honor leaned her face wearily against his shoulder, as though her rest were there.

"Are things so bad at Woodside as all that?" he replied, in a shocked voice. "Poor woman! I am sorry they have told you. Why, love, this is a poor welcome!" as Honor, spent with excitement, shed a few more nervous tears. "You must not let even a passing sadness come between us now. cannot bear to see your bright face dimmed for a moment."

I

"Talk to me, then, and help me to forget it," she replied, with the saddest, sweetest smile. "Sometimes my happiness makes me afraid; it seems almost too perfect for earth."

"Do you know what that tells me ?" he returned, with one of his brightest looks. A secret thrill crossed him as this proud, beautiful creature crept closer to him for protection from her own loving doubts.

The sunshine streamed down on the yellow gorse and broom, only the bracken at their feet lay in shadow; the birds were singing from a clump of firs lower down the road; the white geese came waddling over the common; up in the sky a lark was caroling; in the west a mass of white clouds, tinged with gold and crimson, struggled in the blue like a phantom ship on fire; near home the flecks of foam and whiteness resembled flocks of strange birds; the evening air was sweet with the breath of May. How could any sadness long resist such influences?

"Is the cloud gone?" he inquired, presently. Need he have asked? was he not beside her? was not his voice in her ears?

"Now we will go home," she said, reaching out her hand. No wonder, as she smiled at him, that Guy was dazzled at the brightness of her answer.

CHAPTER XXIV.

WOOED, AND MARRIED AND A'."

THERE is no sight prettier than a village wedding-I mean, a wedding in a village.

We all know the conventional St. George's, Hanover Square, sort of wedding; the great sombre church filled with gaping spectators, three-fourths of them strangers to the bride and bridegroom; the usual crowd collected outside; the fortunate policeman whose beat it is; the nursemaids; the barefooted Arabs, the London gamins of the streets; there is the everlasting yellow chariot, the gray horses, the postilions in their red satin waistcoats; the favors; the fuss; the pretty smiling bridesmaids; the never-to-be-done-with pomp and pageantry of a nineteenth-century English wedding.

Inside the crowd is larger; the sun streams through the great painted windows on a motley of shifting colors; the sacred places are invested by well-dressed people, who on another day in the week would have remained penned up in their luxurious pews, but who now crowd the chancel. There are hand-shakings and introductions, whispered jests, fluttering fans. By and by the ceremony goes on-that most awful ceremony except one-speaking of responsibilities, of duties, of vows, that are life-long. Who among them listens? The mother and sisters shed a few tears, perhaps; the bridesmaids are more ready to titter; most of them have been brought up in devout habits, yet few kneel; presently the benediction is spoken; the man and wife go out together hand in hand, the bride's head a little bowed perhaps; the baskets of favors go round; the horses paw the ground; the carriages roll away one by one; the by-standers criticise the dresses, the bride's looks, the red hair of the bridegroom; the younger ones huzza a little. It is all over; it has been a goodly show. But who is there among all those spectators who prayed that He who blessed the marriage in Cana of Galilee may strengthen the hands of the pair who are going out to fight the battle of life together?

It is not that people are more devout in the country, but that the accessories are brighter. In lieu of London streets we have green fields and deep-hanging lanes. The bells peal out or tinkle merrily from the little church; the young people of the village assemble in the porch, or line the churchyard; the babies are tumbling over the graves, and come up with their hands full of daisies. One or two old men, in their white smocks, lean on the low lichen-covered wall. There comes the modest procession: there is the bride, God bless her! Off go the poor old hats; the school-children curtsy; the straw bonnets are full of homely flowers. By and by, when the young wife reappears on her husband's arm, she will tread lightly on gillyflowers and pinks and old-fashioned stocks— how sweet the air is with them! The organ is playing out the "Wedding March;" the bridesmaids come down in their crisp muslins; there are fresh curtsies; the babies coo and clap their dimpled hands; Giles Stodge's bleared eyes clear a little. Blue skies, green fields, a little crispness and freshness, a few flowers, a few kindly prayers and words, greater lovingkindness, and gratitude for a great happiness-these are all that are needed for wedding garments.

It was this sort of wedding that Guy and Honor had planned for themselves. Birst with was a very primitive place; the lord of the manor had rights that were almost feudal; the squire's harvest must be carried, let who will suffer; in the sheep-shearing seasons the farmers must wait till the Chichester sheep were denuded of their wool and crowded the homefields with shining white bodies.

Between the Great House and the village there was a hearty reciprocity of interest and good will. The masters of Ingleside came of a wealthy stock, but the love of home was deeply bred in them. Guy Chichester was the only rover; his father and his father's father had dwelt as patriarchs among patriarchsfattening up calves, breeding colts, very great in the huntingfields, stern as to the preservation of game, and merciful in their capacity of magistrates to all offenders except poachers. Guy, in spite of his roving propensities, was a greater favorite than his father had been. Mr. Fortescue complained that the kitchens of Ingleside were turning his people into paupers: in the winter, bales of flannel and hundreds of quarts of soup found their way into the laborers' cottages.

Guy was forever bringing in people-tramps and worn-out gleaners, hungry mothers and children-to enjoy a plentiful meal. Sometimes, after church on Sunday, there would be a row of the old people of the village-aged men and women from the parish union-sitting round one of the clean-scoured tables in the servants' hall, waiting for the invariable beef and plum-pudding.

That the squire should do something handsome on his wedding-day was as fully expected as that the bells should ring on Sunday. Long beforehand it was settled no work should be done in the village. The people were all dressed in their best and standing at their doors, as though sowing and plowing and delving were unheard-of things. A few of the ablebodied men were away on necessary work, but even they would be back in time for the feast. In the long green field beside the church the white tents were up, and the red and blue flags were straining and flapping in the breeze. There was to be roast beef and plum-pudding for young and old, a cask of cider had been provided, and some of the rare Yorkshire ale too; and the miller was to take the chair; and Guy meant to leave his guests and come down for a parting cheer, before the traveling-carriage took him and Honor away.

But, in spite of the festivity of the village, the cloudless day, and the bridegroom's radiant face, Beatrix Delaire declared the whole wedding a very poor affair, and decidedly rustic.

Guy had plentifully provided for his poorer neighbors, but he had bidden very few of his richer ones to the wedding. Both he and Honor were painfully unconventional in their notions, as Beatrix phrased it. Neither of them wished to mar the sacredness of the day with admitting all kinds of nondescript outsiders. Beatrix and her husband, Mrs. Tressilian and Edith, and the Fortescues and the Trevors, were the only guests. William Elliott married them-drawn away again reluctantly from St. Luke's by their urgent entreaties; Cousin Latimer assisted, but it was Will who pronounced the nuptial blessing, who placed Honor's hand within her husband's, whose cordial congratulations were the first that greeted the newlywedded pair.

One thing grievously offended Mrs. Delaire: Honor had no bridesmaids; she walked up the aisle leaning on her brother's arm, and, as she came into sight, Guy left his place to meet

her; and when they reached the altar, the two knelt down together, hand in hand, till the officiating priest was ready. There was not one among the guests who did not long remember that day, and the grave, beautiful face of the bride, as her clear voice repeated the solemn words, " till death us do part.' Was it fancy, or did she turn pale and tremble slightly? Dym did not notice it, for suddenly the sun broke dazzling from behind a cloud, and streamed down over the chancel pavement, tinging Honor's dress with crimson and violet; and, looking up, she saw Will's head surrounded by its golden glory, and his face "was as the face of an angel.'

What a dream and unreality that day was to Dym! The great glittering table, where, through a vista of épergnes and pyramids of flowers, she caught sight of Honor's queenly head, and Mr. Chichester's bearded face beside it. She held fast by Will's side, with a very humble child's face, all that day; she was feeling dimly after some great beautiful truth that she only half understood. How improbable-how altogether impossible-it seemed that any one should love her as Guy loved Honor! She was peeping-poor little soul!-into some wonderful woman's paradise, full of all manner of golden fruit and dazzling things. Would she ever be permitted to enter? Were there only a few privileged to know such happiness? Were there others outside, lonely and forgotten as she was?

Poor ignorant little Dym, crying out for the moon, conscious of strange wants, wishing to be something to somebody, and all the while Humphrey was longing to take her to his great honest heart and show her all its treasures-heavy gold that did not glitter, priceless jewels in rugged settings, stainless honor and integrity, and a wealth of love that would give of its substance, asking for little in return!

Dym shrank away from Humphrey, and placed herself under Will's wing-Will, who took such care of her, though he ate nothing himself Will, whose manly speech, when they pledged him afterwards, touched every heart, and even drew tears from

the bride's happy eyes. Honor did not wait for any more speeches after that; when Will had finished, she took her mother-in-law's hand and led her from the room. Guy and she were with her for a long time. When the others thought Honor was changing her dress, Dym, coming in to hurry them,