xt? He had married her. Married her! How could he marry a fairy
on the top of Knapp Fell? Was there a church there, by chance? Had a
licence been handy? "Let me see her lines, Andrew," Mr. Robson had
said somewhat sternly in conclusion. His answer had been to lift up
her left hand and show the thin third finger. It carried a ring, made
of plaited rush. "I put that on her," he said, "and said all the words
over her out of the book." "And you think you have married her,
Andrew?" It was put to him _ex cathedra_. He grew very red and was
silent; presently he said, "Well, sir, I do think so. But she's not my
wife yet, if that's what you mean." The good gentleman felt very much
relieved. It was satisfactory to him that he could still trust his
worthy young parishioner.

Entirely under the influence of Miranda King, he found the family
unanimous for a real wedding. To that there were two objections to
make. He could not put up the banns of a person without a name, and
would not marry a person unbaptised. Now, to baptise an adult
something more than sponsors are requisite; there must be voluntary
assent to the doctrines of religion by the postulant. In this case,
how to be obtained? He saw no way, since it was by no means plain to
him that the girl could understand a word that was said. He left the
family to talk it over among themselves, saying, as he went out of the
door, that his confidence in their principles was so strong that he
was sure they would sanction no step which would lead the two young
people away from the church door.

In the morning Miranda King came to him with a report that matters had
been arranged and only needed his sanction. "I can trust my son, and
see him take her with a good conscience," she told him. "She's not one
of his people, but she's one of mine; and what I have done she can do,
and is willing to do."

The clergyman was puzzled. "What do you mean by that, Mrs. King?" he
asked her. "What are _your people_? How do they differ from mine, or
your husband's?"

She hesitated. "Well, sir, in this way. She hasn't got your tongue,
nor my son's tongue."

"She has none at all," said the minister; but Miranda replied, "She
can talk without her tongue."

"Yes, my dear," he said, "but I cannot."

"But I can," was her answer; "she can talk to me--and will talk to
you; but not yet. She's dumb for a season, she's struck so. My son
will give her back her tongue--by-and-by."

He was much interested. He