"Give Doctor Urquhart my love--tell him, I know he will take care of you. And child"--turning round once again with her "practical" look that I knew so well, "Remember, I have written 'Miss Johnston,' on your boxes. Afterwards, be sure that you alter the name. Good-bye,--nonsense, it is not really goodbye." Ay, but it was. For how many, many years? In that dark, gloomy, London church, which a thundery mist made darker and stiller--I first saw again my dear Max. Mrs. Ansdell said, lest I should be startled and shocked, that it was only the sight of me which overcame him; that he was really better. And so when, after the first few minutes, he asked me, hesitatingly, "if I did not find him much altered?" I answered boldly, "No! that I should soon get accustomed to his grey hair; besides, I never remembered him either particularly handsome or particularly young." At which he smiled--and then I knew again my own Max! and all things ceased to feel so mournfully strange. We went into one of the far pews, and Max tried on my ring. How his hands shook! so much that all my trembling passed away, and a great calm came over me. Yes--I had done right. He had nobody but me. So we sat, side by side, neither of us speaking a word, until the pew-opener came to say the clergyman was ready. There were several other couples waiting to be married at the same time--who had bridesmaids, and friends, and fathers. We three walked up and took our places--there was no one to pay heed to us. I saw the verger whisper something to Max--to which he answered "Yes," and the old man came and stood behind Mrs. Ansdell and me. A few other folk were dotted about in the pews, but I only noticed them as moving figures, and distinguished none. The service began--which I--indeed we both--had last heard at Lisabel's wedding--in our pretty church, all flower-adorned, she looking so handsome and happy, with her sisters near her, and her father to give her away. For a moment I felt very desolate: and hearing a pew-door open and a footstep come slowly up the aisle, I trembled with a vague fear that something might happen, something which even at the last moment might part Max and me. But it did not; I heard him repeat the solemn promises--how dare any one make them lightly, or break them afterwards! to "_love, comfort, honor and keep me, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep me only unto him, so long as we both should live_" And I felt that I also, out of the entire trust I had in him, and the great love I bore him, could cheerfully forsake all other, father, sisters, kindred, and friends, for him. They were very dear to me, and would be always: but he was part of myself,--my husband.