“Could we make room?  ’Tis by the blessing av the saints that I’m a little man, meself, Missis Foord, and don’t take up much room in the c-yab.  And as f’r Johnny Shovel, he’ll be riding on the coal f’r the pure playsure av ut.  My duty to ye, ma’am; and ’tis a pity ut isn’t a black night, whin the swate face av ye would be lighting the thrack f’r us.”

Ford lifted Alicia to the gangway and made her comfortable on the fireman’s box, fixing a footbrace for her, and giving her his arm for a shoulder rest when Gallagher sent the steam whistling through the cylinder-cocks for the impulse needful to start the downward rush.

“‘With a michnai—­ghignai—­’” she began; but when the engine plunged over the summit and the matchless view to the westward came suddenly into, being, the quotation lapsed in a long-drawn, ecstatic “O-o-oh!”

“You are not afraid, are you?” said the bridegroom, man-like, letting her feel the support of his arm.

“Afraid?  No, indeed; I am just happy—­happy!  There lies the world before us, Stuart; our world, because, more than any other man’s, yours were the brain that conceived it and the hands that brought it to pass.  Let us go down quickly and possess it.  Tell Mr. Gallagher that he may run as fast as ever he dares.”  Then with a sigh of contentment and a comfortable nestling into the hollow of the strong arm of protection:  “Was there ever another wedding journey just like ours, Stuart, dear?”