A long table was spread in the centre of the living-room, and, at the moment that the bridal party entered, a tall figure, dressed in kharki, was walking hastily round it, picking up a spoon from each cup.

“Abel!” shrieked Jenny, staggering back against her husband.

“What, bain’t ye dead?” gasped the latter with a dropping jaw.

Abel added another spoon to his collection, and then looked up:—­“This ’ere only makes five,” he said; “there did ought to be six.  Where’s t’other?”

“Dear heart alive!” groaned Jenny’s mother.  “Jist look at en.  We thought en dead an’ buried, an’ here he be a-carryin’ off the spoons!”

“I bain’t dead, ye see,” returned the yeoman fiercely.  “There’s more Abel Guppys nor one i’ the world, an’ the man what got shot was a chap fro’ Weymouth.  If I was dead an’ buried, all the same d’ye think I’d leave my spoons to be set out at another man’s weddin’?  Where’s the other chaney dog?”

He had already pocketed one, and now cast a vengeful glance round.

“On the dresser, Abel,” gasped Jenny faintly; “oh, my poor heart, how it do beat!  To think o’ your comin’ back like that!  Oh, Abel, I made sure you was killed.”

“And you’re very sorry, bain’t ye?” returned her former lover with wrathful irony, “I’ll thank ye for my bank-book, if ye please.  Ye haven’t drawed the money out—­that’s one good thing.  They telled I all about it at the post-office yesterday.  That’s my dish, too.”  Extending a long arm he deftly whisked away the large old-fashioned platter which had supported the wedding-cake, dusting off the crumbs with an air of great disgust.

“I think ye mid have found summat else to put your cake on,” he said, with a withering look; “I think ye mid ha’ showed a bit more feelin’ than that.”

“I’m sure,” protested Jenny plaintively, “‘twas only out o’ respect for you, Abel, that I set out the things.  ‘Twas out o’ fond memory for you.  You know you did say yourself when you was a-writin’ out your will, ‘I’ll leave you all my things, Jenny, so as you’ll think o’ me,’—­an’ I did think o’ you,” she added, beginning to sob, “I’m sure I—­I—­I even wanted to put a bit o’ black crape on your clock, but mother wouldn’t let me.”

“Well,” interrupted Mrs. Pitcher apologetically, “I didn’t think, ye know, it ’ud look very well to have crape about on my darter’s weddin’-day.  It wouldn’t seem lucky.  Or else I’m sure I wouldn’t ha’ had no objections at all—­far from it, Abel.”

“But I’d ha’ had objections,” cried Sam, who had stood by swelling with wrath.  “I do think my feelin’s ought to be considered so much as yon chap’s, be he alive or dead.  It’s me what’s married your darter, bain’t it?”

“It be, Samuel; ‘e-es I d’ ’low it be,” returned Mrs. Pitcher, with a deprecating glance at the yeoman who was now rolling up the rug.  “We all on us thought as Abel was dead, ye see.”