The gray old chancel was like a bed of gaudy tulips, so varied and so brilliant were the dresses of Mr. Piper’s manufacturing friends, waiting impatiently to behold him at the altar. Among all these bright colours and startling bonnets, Beatrix Harefield, in her gray silk dress and old Brussels lace, looked like a creature belonging to another world. All the manufacturing people noticed her, and wanted to know who that distinguished-looking young lady was. Mrs. Dulcimer and Beatrix had the Vicarage pew all to themselves. Presently the bride entered the porch, leaning on her father’s arm, pale against the whiteness of her bridal dress. Mr. Piper, crimson with agitation, and breathing a little harder than usual, hurried forward to receive her. He offered her his arm. The four bridesmaids followed, two and two, the organist played a spirited march, and the business of the day began. Bella gave the responses in a clear little voice. Mr. Piper spoke them with gruff decision. Mr. Dulcimer read the service beautifully, but Mr. Piper’s manufacturing friends hardly appreciated the Vicar’s deliberate and impressive style. They would rather have had the ceremony rattled over with modern celerity, so that they might get to the wedding breakfast. ‘If there’s any hot _ontries_ they’ll be spoiled,’ whispered Mrs. Wigzell, the hat-lining manufacturer’s wife, to Mrs. Porkman, whose husband was in the provision line. ‘I’m beginning to feel quite faint,’ answered Mrs. Porkman. ‘Getting up so early and coming so far! It’s trying for a weak constitution.’ ‘Did you ever see such a young thing?’ asked Mrs. Wigzell, indicating the bride with a motion of her head. Mrs. Porkman’s only answer was a profound sigh. ‘What can be expected from such an unsuitable marriage?’ demanded Mrs. Wigzell, still in a whisper. ‘After such a sensible wife as poor Moggie, too.’ ‘Oh, my dear, Moggie Piper never rose to the level of her position,’ answered Mrs. Porkman. And now all was over, and for ever and ever--or at least for the ever and ever of this lower world--Ebenezer Piper and Isabella Scratchell were made one. Whatever the incongruity of the union, the thing was done. Disgrace or death only could loosen the knot. The organ crashed out the tremendous chords of the Wedding March, everybody looked delighted at the near prospect of breakfast. People crowded into the vestry to see Bella and her husband sign the register. There was much kissing of bride and bridesmaids, while poor Mrs. Scratchell, wedged into a corner by the vestry door, wept a shower of hot tears over her purple dress. ‘I hope she’ll be happy,’ she ejaculated. ‘Marriage is a solemn thing. God grant she may be happy.’ And in her inmost heart the mother prayed and feared lest all should not be well with her daughter in this marriage which she as well as her husband had striven so hard to bring to pass. ‘We have done all for the best,’ she told herself, ‘and Mr. Piper is a kind, good man.’