The dusk has come now—­the quick-hurrying, December dusk, and we have all but finished.  We have had to beg for a few candles, in order to put our finishing touches here and there about the sombre church.  They flame, throwing little jets of light on the glossy laurel-leaves that make collars round the pillars’ stout necks; on the fresh moss-beds, vividly green, in the windows; on the dull, round holly-berries.  In the glow, the ivy twines in cunning garlands round the rough-sculptured font, and the oak lectern; and, above God’s altar, a great white cross of hothouse flowers blooms delicately, telling of summer, and matching the words of old good news beneath it, that brought, as some say, summer, or, at least, the hope of summer, to the world.

Yes, we have nearly done.  The Brat stands on the top of a step-ladder, dexterously posing the last wintry garland; and all we others are resting a moment—­we and our coadjutors.  For we have two coadjutors.  Mr. Musgrave, of course.  Now, at this moment, through the gray light, and across the candles, I can see him leaning against the font, while Barbara kneels with bent head at his feet, completing the ornamentation of the pedestal.  I always knew that things would come right if we waited long enough, and coming right they are—­coming, not come, for still, he has not spoken.  I have consulted each and all of my family, father excepted, as to the average length of time allotted to unspoken courtship, and each has assigned a different period; the longest, however, has been already far exceeded by Frank.  Tou Tou, indeed, adduces a gloomy case of a young man, who spent two years and a half in dumb longing, and broke a blood-vessel and died at the end of them; but this is so discouraging an anecdote, that we all poo-poohed it as unauthentic.

“Perhaps he does not mean to speak at all!” says the Brat, starting a new and hazardous idea; “perhaps he means to take it for granted!”

“Walk out with her, some fine morning,” says Algy, laughing, “and say, like Wemmick, ‘Hallo! here’s a church! let’s have a wedding!’”

“It would be a good thing,” retorts the Brat, gravely, “if there were a printed form for such occasions; it would be a great relief to people.”

This talk did not happen in the church, but at an evening seance overnight.  Our second coadjutor is Mrs. Huntley.

“I am afraid I am not very efficient,” she says, with a pathetic smile.  “I can’t stand very long, but, if I might be allowed to sit down now and then, I might perhaps be some little help.”

And sat down she has, accordingly, ever since, on the top pulpit-step.  It seems that Algy cannot stand very long, either; for he has taken possession of the step next below the top one, and there he abides.  Thank Heaven! they are getting dark now!  If legitimate lovers, whose cooing is desirable and approved, are a sickly and sickening spectacle, surely the sight of illegitimate lovers would make the blood boil in the veins of Moses, Miriam, or Job.