Afterwards while Valentine stood in the church, though his eyes and his surface thoughts were occupied with the approaching ceremony, still in devouter and more hopeful fashion than he had found possible of late, he repeated, “Please God, when I have given up all, as my poor father would wish, I shall have my chance over again.  I’ll work, like my betters, and take not a stick or a clod away from that Melcombe.”

The guests were arriving.  John Mortimer had been standing at the altar-rails, his three sons with him.  Several members of the family grouped themselves right and left of him.  This was to be the quietest of weddings.  And Miss Christie Grant thought what a pity that was; for a grander man than the bridegroom or handsomer little fellows than his two younger sons it would be hard to find.  “He’s just majestic,” she whispered to Mrs. Henfrey.  “Never did I see him look so handsome or so content, and there’s hardly anybody to see him.  Ay, here they come.”  Miss Christie seldom saw anything to admire in her own sex.  Valentine looked down the aisle; his sister was coming, and John Mortimer’s twin-daughters, her only bridesmaids, behind her.

The children behaved very well, though it was said afterwards that a transaction took place at that moment between Bertie and Hugh, in the course of which several large scarlet-runner beans were exchanged for some acorns; also that when John Mortimer moved down the aisle to meet his bride little Anastasia, seizing Mrs. Henfrey’s gown to steady herself, thrust out her crutch toward Valentine, that he might have the privilege of again admiring it.

The peculiarity of this wedding, distinguishing it from others where love is, was the measureless contentment of the future step-children.  “Nothing new in this family,” observed Mrs. Henfrey.  “When Emily’s mother came here, all her children took to my father directly, and loved him as if he had been their own.”

Emily had been married from her brother’s house, Valentine’s old home, and in the dining-room there was spread a wedding breakfast.  The room looked nearly as it had done when Valentine should have appeared to be a bridegroom himself; but he did not know this so well as Dorothea did; yet he felt exceedingly sheepish, and was only consoled by observing that she also was a good deal out of countenance, and scarcely knew whether to blush or to smile when she spoke to him or met his eyes.

So the ceremony of the breakfast well over, and John Mortimer and his wife departed, Valentine was very glad to take leave of his family and walk across the fields with Johnnie.  He did this partly to while away the time before his train started, partly to see Swan, who, with Mrs. Swan in gorgeous array, was found walking about the garden, her husband showing her the plants and flowers, and enlarging on their perfections.

“But how can I find time for it, even on this noble occasion, Mr. Melcombe, my wife’s just been saying, is a wonder, for that long new conservatory all down the front of the house will take a sight of filling—­filled it shall be, and with the best, for if ever there was a lady as deserved the best, it’s Mrs. John Mortimer.  I’m sorry now I burnt so many of my seedlings.”