Philip and Margaret were married in February, four months before the time set for their departure.  The wedding was solemnised in Trinity Church, by the Rev. Mr. Barclay, on one of those white days with a little snow in the air, which I for one prefer over sunny days, in winter, as far more seasonable.  The young gentlemen of the town wondered that Miss Faringfield had not made a better match (as she might have done, of course, in each one’s secret opinion by choosing himself).  The young ladies, though some of them may have regretted the subtraction of one eligible youth from their matrimonial chances, were all of them rejoiced at the removal of a rival who had hitherto kept the eyes of a score of youths, even more eligible, turned away from them.  And so they wished her well, with smiles the most genuine.  She valued not a finger-snap their thoughts or their congratulations.  She had, of late, imperceptibly moved aloof from them.  Nor had she sought the attentions of the young gentlemen.  ’Twas not of her will that they dangled.  In truth she no longer had eyes or ears for the small fashionable world of New York.  She had a vastly greater world to conquer, and disdained to trouble herself, by a smile or a glance, for the admiration of the poor little world around her.

All her thoughts in her first months of marriage—­and these were very pleasant months to Philip, so charming and sweet-tempered was his bride—­were of the anticipated residence in England.  It was still settled that Philip was to go in June; and her going with him was now daily a subject of talk in the family.  Mr. Faringfield himself occasionally mentioned it; indifferently, as if ’twere a thing to which he never would have objected.  Margaret used sometimes to smile, thinking how her father had put it out of his power to oppose her wishes:  first by his friendly sanction to Phil’s going, to refuse which he had not the right; and then by his consent to her marriage, to refuse which he had not the will.

Naturally Philip took pleasure in her anticipations, supposing that, as to their source and object, they differed not from his.  As the pair were so soon to go abroad, ’twas thought unnecessary to set up in a house of their own in New York, and so they made their home for the time in the Faringfield mansion, the two large chambers over the great parlour being allotted to them; while they continued to share the family table, save that Margaret now had her morning chocolate abed.

“I must initiate myself into London ways, dear,” she said, gaily, when Fanny remarked how strange this new habit was in a girl who had never been indolent or given to late rising.

“How pretty the blue brocaded satin is!” quoth Fanny, looking at one of Margaret’s new gowns hanging in a closet.  “Why didn’t you wear it at the Watts’ dinner yesterday?  And your brown velvet—­you’ve not had it on since it came from the dressmaker’s.”

“I shall wear them in London,” says Margaret.