We have provided him lodgings in the priory.  The new hall is not to be dwelt in till the night when the happy pair enter it and make it their home.

Alfgar’s cup of joy is full.

Monday after the Whitsun Octave.—­

At last it is over.  The weary waiting of ten years is ended.  Alfgar and Ethelgiva are man and wife.

Canute gave away the bride in person.  Elfwyn, Hilda, Herstan, Bertha, and Hermann, with his sisters—­indeed all the kindred of the bride were there.  Of the kindred of the bridegroom but one, so far as we know, is living—­his father Anlaf.  It has been a warlike race, and nearly all the members of the family have found a warrior’s grave.

I performed the ceremony, assisted by all the brethren in the choral portions of the mass and the order of the marriage service.  Ethelgiva was pale and composed although she shed a few natural tears, but wiped them soon.  Alfgar was simple and unaffected, as he always is.  All he does is so naturally done.  Like Nathaniel, he is a man without guile.

The church was crowded.  All the retainers and all the neighbours were present, and when the bride and bridegroom left the sacred building, they saluted them with cheers which made the welkin ring.

Then the whole party adjourned to the hall, which was crowded to the fullest extent.  And for the poorer guests, who could not find admittance, tables were spread in the open air, beneath the shade of spreading trees, for the day was lovely even for June.

Canute remained throughout the entertainment, and, by his unaffected condescension and his cheerful sympathy, won the hearts of all.  His general demeanour tends to efface his foreign descent from the mind.  Yet we sighed for Edmund, for which even Canute would pardon us.  He should have presided at the board.

When the night was far advanced the whole party broke up and retired to rest, after a day calculated to efface the recollection of many a hardship past.

For my part, when I returned to the priory, I mused for a long time on the dark paths through which our Lord has conducted us to this happy day.  I thought of the period of Alfgar’s conversion and baptism, of St. Brice’s night, for which England has paid so heavy a penance, now, we trust, happily over.  And while I thus thought, my musings led me to the tomb of Bertric, whose sacred relics, as those of a martyr, now lie interred beneath our high altar, and I wondered whether his blessed spirit could sympathise in our earthly joy.  Yes; I doubt it not; and that he witnesses it from above.  Through suffering to joy has been our lot; through suffering to glory his.

Tuesday.—­