It is a relief to all the wedding-party when the last words are spoken and Howel leads his bride into the vestry.  By this time tears are running fast down her pale cheeks, and Howel’s efforts at encouragement, and the warm kiss he gives her, fail to dry them; Sir John Simpson’s fatherly embrace rather serves to increase than diminish the emotion, and poor Netta is conscious that Howel must be very displeased.

She mutters something about her great fear of lightning and thunder; signs her name even more stragglingly than usual, and is at last led by Howel through the church to the carriage.

‘I don’t wonder she is frightened and nervous,’ says Miss Simpson?  ’I am sure I should have fainted if such a storm had come on at my marriage.  It is—­’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaims Howel, somewhat rudely, as they drive quickly through Jermyn Street, up St James’s Street, down Piccadilly, and into Half Moon Street, without much farther conversation, whilst the storm rolls on.  Netta hurries upstairs and gives way to a burst of sobs and tears; Howel follows, and knowing the best way to console her, takes her in his arms, and having told her that she is his own little wife now, begs her to remember all the grand things they are going to do.

’You are a great lady now, Netta.  We must astonish the little people down in Wales.  Think of Paris, and that Lady Nugent and Miss Rice Rice, and all your old rivals will hear of your being there, and soon see you return smarter and richer than any one,’

’But the storm, cousin Howel!  All those solemn words!  I am frightened to death!’

’Silly little Netta! what has the storm to do with you and me?  All our prosperity and happiness are beginning.’

’But they say, “Blessed is the bride the sun shines on,” and that thunder and lightning are such a bad omen.’

’Don’t be’—­a fool, Howel was going to say, but he modified it into ’Don’t be such a silly little puss, but dry your eyes, and come and make yourself agreeable to our first visitors. Ours, Netta dear.’

Netta did as she was bid, and in a short time was at the head of the table, on which a wedding-breakfast had been duly placed, according to the general rules laid down for such occasions.  Howel had given carte blanche to a fashionable confectioner, and everything was as it should be for the quiet and private marriage of a man of large fortune.  The cake was splendidly ornamented, the champagne iced, and the other viands and wines in keeping with them; the hired waiters vied with Sir John’s servants in propriety of demeanour, and Howel’s page was as pompous as pages generally are.

All Netta’s pride and ambition returned when she saw herself mistress at a table more luxuriously spread than that of Mr Gwynne, and she soon began to enjoy her new dignity very much.

‘I am to have a French maid when I get to Paris,’ she said to Miss Simpson.  ’Howel does not like to take one with us, and we shall form our establishment when we return.’