Mrs. Doria read her daughter from her own book, and she was gay; she laughed with Adrian at the breakfast-table, and mock-seriously joined in his jocose assertion that Clare was positively and by all hymeneal auspices betrothed to the owner of that ring, be he who he may, and must, whenever he should choose to come and claim her, give her hand to him (for everybody agreed the owner must be masculine, as no woman would drop a wedding-ring), and follow him whither he listed all the world over.  Amiable giggling Forey girls called Clare, The Betrothed.  Dark man, or fair? was mooted.  Adrian threw off the first strophe of Clare’s fortune in burlesque rhymes, with an insinuating gipsy twang.  Her aunt Forey warned her to have her dresses in readiness.  Her grandpapa Forey pretended to grumble at bridal presents being expected from grandpapas.

This one smelt orange-flower, another spoke solemnly of an old shoe.  The finding of a wedding-ring was celebrated through all the palpitating accessories and rosy ceremonies involved by that famous instrument.  In the midst of the general hilarity, Clare showed her deplorable want of iron by bursting into tears.

Did the poor mocked-at heart divine what might be then enacting?  Perhaps, dimly, as we say:  that is, without eyes.

At an altar stand two fair young creatures, ready with their oaths.  They are asked to fix all time to the moment, and they do so.  If there is hesitation at the immense undertaking, it is but maidenly.  She conceives as little mental doubt of the sanity of the act as he.  Over them hangs a cool young curate in his raiment of office.  Behind are two apparently lucid people, distinguished from each other by sex and age:  the foremost a bunch of simmering black satin; under her shadow a cock-robin in the dress of a gentleman, big joy swelling out his chest, and pert satisfaction cocking his head.  These be they who stand here in place of parents to the young couple.  All is well.  The service proceeds.

Firmly the bridegroom tells forth his words.  This hour of the complacent giant at least is his, and that he means to hold him bound through the eternities, men may hear.  Clearly, and with brave modesty, speaks she:  no less firmly, though her body trembles:  her voice just vibrating while the tone travels on, like a smitten vase.

Time hears sentence pronounced on him:  the frail hands bind his huge limbs and lock the chains.  He is used to it:  he lets them do as they will.

Then comes that period when they are to give their troth to each other.  The Man with his right hand takes the Woman by her right hand:  the Woman with her right hand takes the Man by his right hand.—­Devils dare not laugh at whom Angels crowd to contemplate.

Their hands are joined; their blood flows as one stream.  Adam and fair Eve front the generations.  Are they not lovely?  Purer fountains of life were never in two bosoms.