much of
it, yet had never seen it. Sure this was the very day on which to
go.

Culverhouse would have gone to the moon with her had she asked
it--or would at least have striven to do so--and his assent was
cordially given. Cuthbert knew the place well; and Kate was quickly
mounted on the palfrey, Culverhouse walking at her bridle-rein,
whilst Cuthbert walked on ahead to choose the safest paths, and
warn them of any peril in the road. He could hear scraps of
lover-like dialogue, that sent his heart back to Cherry, and made
him long to have her beside him; but that being impossible, he gave
himself up to the enjoyment of the present, and found pleasure in
everything about him.

He had been before to this gay fair, held every May Day, to which
all the rustic folks from far and near flocked with one accord. He
knew well the look of the tents and booths, the bright dresses of
the women, the feats of skill and strength carried on between the
younger men, the noise, the merriment, the revelry that towards
sundown became almost an orgie.

But in the bright noon-day light all was at its best. Kate was
delighted with everything, especially with the May Queen upon her
throne, surrounded by her attendant maidens in their white holiday
dresses, with their huge posies in their hands. This was the place
for love making, and it attracted the lovers not a little.
Cuthbert, who undertook to tie up the horse in some safe place, and
then wandered alone through the shifting throng, found them still
upon the green when he rejoined them after his ramble. Plainly
there was something of interest greater than before going on in
this quarter. People were flocking to the green, laughing,
chattering, and questioning. Blushing girls were being led along by
their ardent swains; some were protesting, others laughing.
Cuthbert could not make out what it was all about, and presently
asked a countryman why the folks were all in such a coil.

"Why? because the priest has come, and all who will may be wed by
him. He comes like this every May Day, and he stands in the church
porch, and he weds all who come to him for a silver sixpence, and
asks no questions. Half our folks are so wed year by year, for
there be no priest or parson here this many years, not since the
last one was hunted to death by good Queen Bess--Heaven rest her
soul! The church is well nigh falling to pieces as it stands; but
the porch is the best part of it, and the priest who come