n an impressive manner, she added, "do not deceive
yourself with such fallacies, my daughter; your princely word is
passed, your father's royal honor is pledged, and you must be married
on Halloween."

The lady Dewbell, sobbing hysterically, again looked up. She was
alone; at the same moment the cat-and-baby face of Puck glanced by the
window, and a wild, mischievous laugh melted away into a song, of
which the lady only caught the two last lines:

"He rideth fast, and he rideth well,
But his heart still clings to the pretty Bell."

"Oh, bless thee, dear Puck!" sighed the haply wondering lady, rising
and leaning from the window. "May thy sweet prophecy come true!"

PART III.

'T is Halloween midnight. Through the tall windows of the venerable
church streamed in the broad moonlight, in bright silver floods, that
lost themselves in the profound recesses of the distant aisles, or
fell like many-colored snow-flakes upon the marble floor. Entering
without sound, came up the middle aisle the royal wedding-procession.
First walked the father, the royal Paterflor, looking stern and
determined, yet, it must be confessed, a little roguish about the
crowsfeet. Upon his arm leaned his pale and stricken daughter, the
once proud, joyous and imperious Princess Dewbell. She was pale as a
lily's cup, and drooping as its stem. She never raised her head from
her bosom, and her eyes, once sparkling like fountains of light, were
hidden beneath their willowy lids. Next comes the "red-haired prince,"
as the lady Dewbell had scornfully denominated him, (his head _was_ a
little inclined to flame, dear reader, between you and me,)
respectfully conducting the ever sweet and placid Queen Woodbine; and
after them a troop of merry and gayly-dressed fairies, both ladies and
gentlemen, but very demure and solemn; while Puck, in the united
capacity of Hymen and Grand Usher, was dodging about with his flaming
torch, now in front, now in rear, now here, now there, and every where
imparting an air of grotesqueness to the whole affair.

At the altar the party stopped, and ranging themselves in the approved
order for such occasions, the priest--a grave and reverend bullfrog,
whose surplice was scrupulously neat and tidy--proceeded with the
ceremony. When he came to the question, "dost thou, my daughter,
freely and voluntarily bestow thy hand and thy affections upon this
man, Paudeen O'Rafferty, commonly called Pat?"

The pale and shrinkin