In spite of all the sorrow that they had witnessed and just left, their journey up to London was very pleasant.  Perhaps there is no period so pleasant among all the pleasant periods of love-making as that in which the intimacy between the lovers is so assured, and the coming event so near, as to produce and to endure conversation about the ordinary little matters of life—­what can be done with the limited means at their mutual disposal; how that life shall be begun which they are to lead together; what idea each has of the other’s duties; what each can do for the other; what each will renounce for the other.  There was a true sense of the delight of intimacy in the girl who declared that she had never loved her lover so well as when she told him how many pairs of stockings she had got.  It is very sweet to gaze at the stars together; and it is sweet to sit out among the haycocks.  The reading of poetry together, out of the same book, with brows all close, and arms all mingled, is very sweet.  The pouring out of the whole heart in written words, which the writer knows would be held to be ridiculous by any eyes, and any ears, and any sense, but the eyes and ears and sense of the dear one to whom they are sent, is very sweet; but for the girl who has made a shirt for the man that she loves, there has come a moment in the last stitch of it, sweeter than any that stars, haycocks, poetry, or superlative epithets have produced.  Nora Rowley had never as yet been thus useful on behalf of Hugh Stanbury.  Had she done so, she might perhaps have been happier even than she was during this journey, but, without the shirt, it was one of the happiest moments of her life.  There was nothing now to separate them but their own prudential scruples and of them it must be acknowledged that Hugh Stanbury had very few.  According to his shewing, he was as well provided for matrimony as the gentleman in the song, who came out to woo his bride on a rainy night.  In live stock he was not so well provided as the Irish gentleman to whom we allude; but in regard to all other provisions for comfortable married life, he had, or at a moment’s notice could have, all that was needed.  Nora could live just where she pleased—­not exactly in Whitehall Gardens or Belgrave Square; but the New Road, Lupus Street, Montague Place, the North Bank, or Kennington Oval, with all their surrounding crescents, terraces, and rows, offered, according to him, a choice so wide, either for lodgings or small houses, that their only embarrassment was in their riches.  He had already insured his life for a thousand pounds, and, after paying yearly for that, and providing a certain surplus for saving, five hundred a year was the income on which they were to commence the world.  ‘Of course, I wish it were five thousand for your sake,’ he said; ’and I wish I were a Cabinet Minister, or a duke, or a brewer; but, even in heaven, you know all the angels can’t be archangels.’  Nora assured him that she would be quite content with virtues simply angelic.