Jude's on foot?"

"I am not going to the church yet; I am going on to the Grove, Miss
Corny. I thought it would look more proper to have a fly ma'am; more
respectful."

"Not a doubt but you need it in that trim," retorted she. "Why didn't
you put on pumps and silk stockings with pink clocks?"

He was glad to bow himself out, she kept on so. But he thought he would
do it with a pleasant remark, to show her he bore no ill-will. "Just
look at the crowds pouring down, Miss Corny; the church will be as full
as it can cram."

"I dare say it will," retorted she. "One fool makes many."

"I fear Miss Cornelia does not like this marriage, any more than she did
the last," quoth Mr. Dill to himself as he stepped into his fly. "Such
a sensible woman as she is in other things, to be so bitter against Mr.
Archibald because he marries! It's not like her. I wonder," he added,
his thoughts changing, "whether I do look foolish in this shirt? I'm
sure I never thought of decking myself out to appear young--as Miss
Corny said--I only wished to testify respect to Mr. Archibald and Miss
Barbara; nothing else would have made me give five-and-twenty shillings
for it. Perhaps it's not etiquette--or whatever they call it--to wear
them in the morning, Miss Corny ought to know; and there certainly must
be something wrong about it, by the way it put her up. Well, it can't
be helped now; it must go; there's no time to return home now to change
it."

St. Jude's Church was in a cram; all the world and his wife had flocked
into it. Those who could not get in, took up their station in the
churchyard and in the road.

Well, it was a goodly show. Ladies and gentlemen as smart as fine
feathers could make them. Mr. Carlyle was one of the first to enter the
church, self-possessed and calm, the very sense of a gentleman. Oh, but
he was noble to look upon; though when was he otherwise? Mr. and Mrs.
Clithero were there, Anne Hare, that was; a surprise for some of the
gazers, who had not known they were expected at the wedding. Gentle,
delicate Mrs. Hare walked up the church leaning on the arm of Sir John
Dobede, a paler shade than usual on her sweet, sad face. "She's thinking
of her wretched, ill-doing son," quoth the gossips, one to another. But
who comes in now, with an air as if the whole church belonged to him? An
imposing, pompous man, stern and grim, in a new flaxen wig, and a white
rose in his buttonhole. It is Mr. Justice Hare, and he leads in on