coaches came up at the moment, having driven four miles for the
purpose of driving four furlongs.

John Proudfoot, without needless courtesy, took the fiddler-postman by
the neck of his coat and the garment beneath its tails, and slung him,
fiddle and all, on to the saddle of the pony, and held him there a
moment, steadying him like a sack with an open mouth.

"Sit thee there as steady as a broody hen; and now let's mak' shift,"
said the blacksmith.

"But I must go inside first," said the fiddler; "I've a letter for
Lawyer Bonnithorne."

"Shaf on thee and thy letter! Away with thee! Deliver it at the church
door."

The men dropped into a single file, with Tom o' Dint riding at their
head, and Gubblum walking by the pony's side and holding the reins.

"Strike up!" shouted Job Sheepshanks. "Ista ever gaen to begin?"

Then the fiddler shouldered his fiddle, and fell to, and the first long
sweeps of his wedding-march awoke the echoes of the vale.

The women and children followed the procession a few hundred yards, and
then returned to see the wedding-party enter the coaches.

Inside the vicarage all was noise and bustle. Greta was quiet enough,
and ready to set out at any time, but a bevy of gay young daleswomen
were grouped about her, trying to persuade her to change her brown
broche dress for a pale-blue silk, to have some hothouse plants in her
hair, and at least to wear a veil.

"And mind you keep up heart, darling, and speak out your responses; and,
dearest, don't cry until the parson gets to 'God bless you!'"

Greta received all this counsel with equal thanks. She listened to it,
affected to approve of it, and ignored it. Her face betrayed anxiety.
She hardly understood her own fears, but whenever the door opened, and a
fresh guest entered, she knew that her heart leaped to her mouth.

Parson Christian stood near her in silk gaiters and a coat that had been
old-fashioned even in his youth. But his Jovian gray head and fine old
face, beautiful in its mellowness and child-like simplicity, made small
demand of dress. He patted Greta's hair sometimes with the affectionate
gesture that might be grateful to a fondled child.

Mr. Bonnithorne arrived early, in a white waistcoat and coat adorned by
a flower. His brave apparel was scarcely in keeping with the anxiety
written on his face. He could not sit down for more than a moment in the
same seat. He was up and down, walking to and fro, looking out of the
wind