On the morning of the wedding Valentine sauntered down from his sister’s house to John Mortimer’s garden.  Emily had Dorothea with her, and Giles was to give her away.  She was agitated, and she made him feel more so than usual; a wedding at which Brandon and Dorothea were to be present would at any time have made him feel in a somewhat ridiculous position, but just then he was roused by the thought of it from those ideas and speculations in the presence of which he ever dwelt, so that, on the whole, though it excited it refreshed him.

He was generally most at ease among the children; he saw some of them, and Swan holding forth to them in his most pragmatical style.  Swan was dressed in his best suit, but he had a spade in his hand.  Valentine joined them, and threw himself on a seat close by.  He meant to take the first opportunity he could find for having a talk with Swan, but while he waited he lost himself again, and appeared to see what went on as if it was a shifting dream that meant nothing; his eyes were upon, the children, and his ears received expostulation and entreaty:  at last his name roused him.

“And what Mr. Melcombe will think on you it’s clean past my wits to find out.  Dressed up so beautiful, all in your velvets and things, and buckles in your shoes, and going to see your pa married, and won’t be satisfied unless I’ll dig out this here nasty speckled beast of a snake.”

“But you’re so unfair,” exclaimed Bertram.  “We told you if you’d let us conjure it, there would be no snake.”

“What’s it all about?” said Valentine, rousing himself and remarking some little forked sticks held by the boys.

“Why, it’s an adder down that hole,” cried one.

“And it’s a charm we’ve got for conjuring him,” quoth the other.  “And we only want Swanny to dig, and then if the charm is only a sham charm, the adder will come out.”

“I should have thought he was a sight better wheer he is,” said Swan.  “But you’ve been so masterful and obstinate, Master Bertie, since you broke your arm!”

“It’s not at all kind of you to disappoint us on father’s wedding-day.”

“Well, Mr. Melcombe shall judge.  If he says, ‘Charm it,’ charm you shall; for he knows children’s feelings as well as grown folks’s.  There never was anybody that was so like everybody else.”

“It’s conjuring, I tell you, cousin Val.  Did you never see a conjuror pull out yards and yards of shavings from his mouth, and then roll them up till they were as small as a pea, and swallow them?  This is conjuring too.  We say, ‘Underneath this hazelin mote;’ that’s the forked-stick, you know; and while we say it the adder is obliged to roll himself up tighter and tighter, just like those shavings, till he is quite gone.”

“I can’t swallow that!” exclaimed Valentine.  “Well, off then.”

“But I won’t have the stick poked down his hole!” cried Swan, while Hugh shouted down his defiance—­