by which the church could be reached privately.  She even avoided the churchyard gate, walking along to a place where the turf without the low wall rose into a mound, enabling her to mount upon the coping and spring down inside.  She crossed the wet graves, and so glided round to the door.  He was there, with his bag in his hand.  He kissed her with a sort of surprise, as if he had expected that at the last moment her heart would fail her.

Though it had not failed her, there was, nevertheless, no great ardour in Christine’s bearing—­merely the momentum of an antecedent impulse.  They went up the aisle together, the bottle-green glass of the old lead quarries admitting but little light at that hour, and under such an atmosphere.  They stood by the altar-rail in silence, Christine’s skirt visibly quivering at each beat of her heart.

Presently a quick step ground upon the gravel, and Mr. Bealand came round by the front.  He was a quiet bachelor, courteous towards Christine, and not at first recognizing in Nicholas a neighbouring yeoman (for he lived aloofly in the next parish), advanced to her without revealing any surprise at her unusual request.  But in truth he was surprised, the keen interest taken by many country young women at the present day in church decoration and festivals being then unknown.

‘Good morning,’ he said; and repeated the same words to Nicholas more mechanically.

‘Good morning,’ she replied gravely.  ’Mr. Bealand, I have a serious reason for asking you to meet me—­us, I may say.  We wish you to marry us.’

The rector’s gaze hardened to fixity, rather between than upon either of them, and he neither moved nor replied for some time.

‘Ah!’ he said at last.

‘And we are quite ready.’

‘I had no idea—­’

‘It has been kept rather private,’ she said calmly.

‘Where are your witnesses?’

‘They are outside in the meadow, sir.  I can call them in a moment,’ said Nicholas.

‘Oh—­I see it is—­Mr. Nicholas Long,’ said Mr. Bealand, and turning again to Christine, ‘Does your father know of this?’

‘Is it necessary that I should answer that question, Mr. Bealand?’

‘I am afraid it is—­highly necessary.’

Christine began to look concerned.

‘Where is the licence?’ the rector asked; ’since there have been no banns.’

Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an operation which occupied him several minutes—­or at least he made it appear so; till Christine said impatiently, ’We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand.  Will you proceed?  Mr. Long has to take a journey of a great many miles to-day.’

‘And you?’

‘No.  I remain.’

Mr. Bealand assumed firmness.  ‘There is something wrong in this,’ he said.  ‘I cannot marry you without your father’s presence.’

‘But have you a right to refuse us?’ interposed Nicholas.  ’I believe we are in a position to demand your fulfilment of our request.’