as a badge of her perpetual sovereignty; some that it was a provision in her father’s will, the old gentleman having been heard to hope that none but Buntings would ever inhabit the cottage; but while they disputed that point the wedding came off with a liberal distribution of cards, cake, and gloves, a breakfast, at which Mrs Captain Phipps presided, and an excursion of three weeks to the Lakes; after which, Mr and Mrs Phipps Bunting, having got a new door-plate, and an additional crest on the spoons, settled down comfortably at home, where our story found them.

There they were duly visited and made due returns, even to their uttermost acquaintance.  Evening parties wore got up for their benefit, as Westbourne gentility dictated.  A few responses were given at the cottage, and people learned to call them the Buntings.  When these occurrences and the talk concerning them were fairly over, it was surprising how little things had altered.  Mrs Phipps Bunting superintended everything, from the napery in the drawers to the bee-hives in the garden, with so much of her old and independent activity, that people caught themselves occasionally calling her Miss Jenny.  As for her lord, he was Master Harry still.  Matrimony made no change in him.  On Sundays he dressed himself and went to church with Mrs Phipps Bunting.  On week-days, he said he studied, paid little visits, took small excursions, and came home to dinner.  Even bachelors agreed that he lived under the mildest form of gynecocracy.  Mrs Captain Phipps gave him good advices at the one end of the village, Mrs Phipps Bunting kept him all right at the other; and between them an indescribable amount of nobodyism grew and gathered around him.

Mr Phipps Bunting—­as the best bred of his neighbours now endeavoured to call him—­was doubtless not less contented than most men in the married state.  Miss Jenny—­that was—­made a noble housekeeper, that was natural to her; she was not given to storms nor temper, nor fault-finding, nor what is called gaiety:  they had kind country neighbours; and Mrs Phipps Bunting sometimes spoke of her mother’s relatives, who were known to be fine people in London.

There was no appearance of change when the second of their wedded years commenced; but one December morning an extraordinary event occurred at the cottage, for Harry received a letter.  It came from Charles Lacy, an old college-friend, whose achievements in the fast line had furnished him with many a joke and tale.  He had been till lately a briefless barrister, but had just fallen heir to a neat property in an adjoining county, bequeathed him by a distant relative, his advent to which he intended celebrating with a notable bachelors’ party, and Harry’s presence was requested, together with that of many a college comrade.

‘I think I’ll go,’ said Harry, in a hesitating tone, as the note was read at the breakfast-table.

‘Of course you will, dear,’ said Mrs Bunting.  ’And now that I think of it; something must be done with that parlour chimney, it smokes so.  Just send up the mason on your way to the coach.’