The bridesmaids arrived, each wearing the pretty brooch presented by Captain Fontanel. Their costume was suitable to the season, of primrose-yellow, with hats turned up, white, with primroses. The pages were in green velvet, with knee-breeches and three-cornered hats, lace ruffles and lace fronts. The butler had made the claret-cup and the champagne-cup, and after a skirmish over the neighbourhood some borage had been obtained to float on the top. Lady Lacy was to hold a reception after the ceremony, and a marquee had been erected in the grounds, as the cottage could not contain all the guests invited. The dining-room was delivered over for the exposing of the presents. A carriage had been commanded to convey the happy couple to the station, horses and driver with white favours. With a sigh of relief in the morning, Lady Lacy declared that she believed that nothing had been forgotten. The trunks stood ready packed, all but one, and labelled with the name of Mrs. Fontanel. A flag flew on the church tower. The villagers had constructed a triumphal arch at the entrance to the grounds. The people from farms and cottages had all turned out, and were already congregating about the churchyard, with smiles and heartfelt wishes for the happiness of the bride, who was a mighty favourite with them, as indeed was also Lady Lacy. The Sunday-school children had clubbed their pence, and had presented Betty, who had taught them, with a silver set of mustard-pot, pepper caster, and salt-cellar. "Oh, dear!" said Betty, "what shall I do with all these sets of mustard- and pepper-pots? I have now received eight." "A little later, dear," replied her aunt, "you can exchange those that you do not require." "But never that set given me by my Sunday-school pets," said Betty. Then came in flights of telegrams of congratulation. And at the last moment arrived some more wedding presents. "Good gracious me!" exclaimed the girl, "I really must manage to acknowledge these. There will be just time before I begin to dress." So she tripped upstairs to her boudoir, a little room given over to herself in which to do her water-colour painting, her reading, to practise her music. A bright little room to which now, as she felt with an ache, she was to bid an eternal good-bye! What happy hours had been spent in it! What day-dreams had been spun there! She opened her writing-case and wrote the required letters of thanks. "There," said she, when she had signed the fifth. "This is the last time I shall subscribe myself Elizabeth Mountjoy, except when I sign my name in the church register. Oh! how my back is hurting me. I was not in bed till two o'clock and was up again at seven, and I have been on the tear for the whole week. There will be just time for me to rest it before the business of the dressing begins." She threw herself on the sofa and put up her feet. Instantly she was asleep--in a sound, dreamless sleep.