‘It’s about the silliest letter I ever read,’ said the old Squire; ’but it is intended for civility.  She means to show that she does not condemn you.  There are many people who do not know when to speak and when to be silent.  I shouldn’t go.’

‘No, I shan’t go.’

‘But I should take it as meant in kindness.’

Then John Caldigate wrote back as follows:—­’All this that has befallen my wife and me prevents us from going anywhere.  She is at the present moment with her own people at Chesterton, but when she returns I shall not leave her.  Give my kindest love to Julia, and ask her from me to accept the little present which I send her.’

Julia declared that she would much rather not have accepted the brooch, and that she would never wear it.  But animosity against such articles wears itself out quickly, and it may be expected that the little ornament will be seen in the houses of the Suffolk gentry among whom Mr. Smirkie is so popular.

Whether it was Mr. Smirkie’s popularity, or the general estimation in which the Babington family were held, or the delight which is taken by the world at large in weddings, there was a very great gathering at Babington church, and in the Squire’s house afterwards.  Though it was early in March,—­a time of the year which, in the eastern counties of England, is not altogether propitious to out-of-doors festivity,—­though the roads were muddy, and the park sloppy, and the church abominably open to draughts, still there was a crowd.  The young ladies in that part of the world had been slow in marrying lately, and it was felt that the present occasion might give a little fillip to the neighbourhood.  This was the second Suffolk young lady that Mr. Smirkie had married, and he was therefore entitled to popularity.  He certainly had done as much as he could, and there was probably no one around who had done more.

‘I think the dear child will be happy,’ said Mrs. Babington to her old friend, Mrs. Munday,—­the wife of Archdeacon Munday, the clerical dignitary who had given Mr. Smirkie so good a character.

‘Of course she will,’ said Mrs. Munday, who had already given three daughters in marriage to three clergymen, and who had, as it were, become used to the transfer.

‘And that she will do her duty in it.’

’Why not?  There’s nothing difficult in it if she only sees that he has his surplice and bands properly got up.  He is not, on the whole, a bad-tempered man; and though the children are rough, they’ll grow out of that.  And she ought to make him take two, or perhaps three, glasses of port wine on Sundays.  Mr. Smirkie is not as young as he used to be, and two whole duties, with the Sunday school, which must be looked into, do take a good deal out of a man.  The archdeacon, of course, has a curate; but I suppose Mr. Smirkie could hardly manage that just at present?’