as first mate in a splendid vessel of theirs, sailing from St. Katharine's Docks in the February of next year. He would have been captain but for his youth; that post might, however, be his, they hinted, on his next voyage. And in the meantime we resolved to spend our Christmas at St. Eldred's. Bertha was anxious to see her family again, and I was longing to behold that well-beloved shore in all its wintry ruggedness, and to see once more the hills behind North Combe in the snowy robes they usually wore in the early weeks of the new year. So we went down, carrying with us sundry hampers, containing such Christmas cheer as is to be had most plentifully in London markets; and we reached North Fort on Christmas-eve, and found the dear old people nearly beside themselves with joy, while even the placid Alice could scarcely keep her happiness within bounds. As for Bertha, she was wildly elate; and Gilbert, though quiet, and even grave, was, I knew, more than perfectly content. I understood him better than any one, and I knew that under that calm exterior were depths of truest feeling, and bliss and gratitude too full "for words upon their stream to bear."

We had a blessed Christmas-day, calm, and bright, and mild for the season, and we all went to church in the morning and heard Dr. Berners preach; and once again the holly and the laurel were wreathed about the pillars and round the font and pulpit; and I thought of that day six years ago, when Clara Berners and Mirrie and I had worked at the decorations. And now Clara was in her grave, and Mirrie was far away; one at least of that little company comprehended now the full mystery of the Cross, and the glory of the Crown! I felt almost sad, amidst my joy, thinking of that day, that seemed so long ago; and of Clara's brightness and goodness, lost so early to those who loved her best. For Clara was a young wife when she died, and she took with her to the better land a tiny babe, who just looked upon the light, and closed his eyes, to open them again in the brighter day that never ends in darkness.

In the evening we sat round the hearth, and talked, and talked; and then a proposition was made that startled me

just a little. Gilbert was to sail in February, and he wished to make me his wife before he went away. He had said something about it before, but I scarcely thought him in earnest. Now, however, backed by his father's and mother's entreaties, and his sisters' persuasions, he became so importunate that it was impossible to say him "nay.”

Well, perhaps I did not altogether wish to say it. Anyhow, when we went to bed that night, the wedding was fixed for the 15th of January.

WHEN I had thought about my wedding-day, as all girls do, I suppose, now and then, I had pictured to myself a glorious June morning, the roses in full bloom, flowery wreaths on all the hedges, and star-like blossoms on the mossy banks. I had fancied a blue and cloudless sky, soft sunshine on the woods and fields, and the silver-chiming waves breaking lightly on the shore in little sparkling showers of pearly spray. Yes! my wedding-day was to be warm, and bright, and beautiful; and, lo! it was cold and flowerless, and the snow lay thick and white upon the hills; keen blasts blew fiercely from the east, and the dark waves swept the weedstrewn shingle with a mournful, soughing sound.

When Susan Pratten came to call me, on the morning of that eventful 15th of January, I was already up and dressing; but my fingers were so benumbed I could scarcely make the temporary toilet in which I intended to go down and take the ordinary breakfast. But Susan brought me hot water, and helped me, and scolded me all the while for not sleeping till the proper time; but finished up by saying, “Ah, well! I suppose people feels a little queer on their weddingmorning. And no wonder! it must be something like jumping into the sea in just such weather as this, and not being sure how deep the water is! You may get a nice bracing bath, though it is a shock; or you may go over

head and ears, and never come up again alive. You know I never had any great opinion of matrimony, Miss Margaret."

"I know, Susan: you used to favour us with some of your maxims at Kelver House, and my dear mother used to laugh at you, and say you preferred a single life chiefly because you were afraid of not having your own way in all things."

"Well, Miss Margaret, and my dear and lamented mistress was not far wrong. I honoured and obeyed my father and my mother when I was a little one, as the Scriptures taught me, and I always submitted myself to 'all my teachers, spiritual pastors, and masters,' as the catechism said, and I tried to serve my masters according to the flesh, in singleness of my heart as unto Christ, as St. Paul bids servants do; but, thinks I, the Bible says 'Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.' Mark that, Miss Margaret!' as unto the Lord.' So, thinks I again, I have been obeying and submitting all my life long, and I am come to years of discretion, and it is time I was my own mistress. If I have a husband I must obey him, but if I keep single I need obey nobody. And really, now, if a duke was to ask me, I don't think I should say 'Yes' to him. But then every woman isn't strong enough to stand alone."

And all this while Susan was pouring out for me a delicious cup of coffee, and stirring the fire, and adjuring me to eat a good breakfast, or I should never be able to go through the ceremony, which seemed, according to her showing, to be about as pleasant and as trying to the nerves as a public execution. Presently she began again,—

66

Now, Miss Margaret, you must not go for to expect too much. Men will be men, you see; and naturally they are very troublesome and tiresome creatures: they'll none of 'em be driven but the very soft ones that are good for nothing, and some of 'em will neither be druv nor led-no, nor coaxed, they're so rampaging. There's poor Mrs. Clay, in Tower-street, she never can do anything with her husband,

he's that unreasonable; he's always coming home in a bad temper because of the drink, and

"Stop, Susan, please! These reviews of married life are far from agreeable; and I do not see how the mention of Mrs. Clay's intemperate husband can affect my case. Gilbert Tredgold is a Christian man; or, much as I love him, I would not trust him: we may have troubles, and we may both disappoint each other in some things; but we both have a rule of life that will keep us from doing and saying much that might otherwise be said and done to cause unhappiness."

"Well, there is that, Miss Margaret. Being a Christian makes a good deal of difference; but not all, my dear-oh, dear, no! I have known Christian men very plaguing and fractious."

"And have you not known very unamiable Christian women? And do you not think they may sometimes try their husband's temper? I fancy, Susan, in all relations of life, we must expect some imperfections, and there will be faults on both sides. You know the old adage, 'Bear and forbear?' It is hackneyed enough, I confess; but it is singularly wise. Indeed, Susan, I will try to do my duty, and I am not afraid; we love each other truly, and I think we have God's blessing. It would not do for all the world to follow your example."

"Well, no; I suppose not. I am an old fool, I dare say; but I can't help having a fling at matrimony every time I have the chance."

"If you were younger, Susan, I should expect to hear of your doing some very foolish thing. People are so apt to rush from one extreme to the other."

"I dare say! But I shall be fifty-two next month, and that's rather too late to change one's condition; and, if nobody fancied me when I was young and comely, it's not likely they will now."

"But you don't mean, Susan, that no one ever fancied

you."

"I saw at once that I had asked an indiscreet question,

FF

for Susan's brow clouded, and she turned round evidently in a little huff; but after a moment or two she replied— "There it's the truth, so I'll say it, though you needn't go for to tell upon me, Miss Margaret! I never did have what you call a regular offer. Only once Jemmy Clews, that goes off his head every full moon, asked me to be his sweetheart; but he was very mad at the time, and if he asked one, he asked a score of girls that afternoon to marry him, and I wasn't the first, so I don't think that can count! And once since I began housekeeping, the head waiter at the hotel would walk home from church with me one afternoon, and he says Miss Pratten, I'm leaving our house, and I'm a-going to set up for myself in the public line, and I shall want a wife. Can you recommend one, not too young, with a little money saved up, and some good furniture of her own?' 'So you are there, master,' thinks I; and I says, 'No, I can't, Mr. Jones; and I wouldn't if I could, for I hate all public houses, and I wouldn't have aught to do with one if it was to keep me from starving! So he bowed, and said that was very unkind of me, and at the corner of the lane he wished me 'good afternoon.' Now, I believe he really meant to propose, as people say, only I took him. up so short; but he didn't, so I can't count him. And that's all the love-making I ever had, Miss Margaret; but it would be just the same if I had had scores of offers. I really wish I had, for then I should have proved my principles; as it is, I can only bring up Sally with proper views of matrimony. She's never to be married, and I shall leave her all I have. When I see a wedding pass, I shake my head and say, 'There they go, poor things!' And that's why I've sent her to her father's relations now. I did not like her to see you married, because she thinks so much of you, and it might put foolish notions in her head about her own turn coming some day, and all that nonsense. Sally's growing up just as I wish her, I am glad to say, and she'll be a comfort to me in my old age, and be a steady-going respectable old maid !"

Poor Susan! And I knew that at that very moment Sally