I was not slow in deciding on what was best to be done; it was now three o’clock, and I despatched Mr. Porter to a clergyman living about six miles from us, requesting his attendance the next morning at eleven o’clock. Martha went to a jeweller’s in the village, and brought home several gold rings, going with them to my dear angel, and carrying also a letter, wherein I detailed all our plans. All that a tender love, all that a devoted, honest heart could dictate, was strongly urged, to reconcile her to this precipitous step, and I had the happiness to learn that she gave herself up wholly to my wishes. I arranged every thing as well as the short time would allow, and aunt Martha was not idle; she spent the evening with the dear young lady, packing up and preparing for her departure, observing the utmost caution lest they might be suspected. I knew that her uncle had no right to detain her, for she was of age, and of course her own mistress; but we both thought it better to prevent disagreeable scenes—scenes which might delay our marriage, perhaps prevent it altogether. The good clergyman came at the appointed time, and I went, as was previously arranged, in a carriage to meet my beloved at the head of the lane leading to the garden. She saw the carriage at a distance from her window, and by the time it stopped she was at the gate. The steps were down; I hastened to the dear creature, who trembled so much that I was compelled to lift her in the carriage; the door closed, and I pressed her to my heart—that heart which was filled with the purest esteem and affection, an affection which was to endure for ever. I entreated her to be composed, assuring her that there was nothing to fear, that in a few moments it would be out of the power of any one to separate us. I thanked her over and over again for thus making me the happiest of men, pouring out my whole soul in words of love and truth. In a few moments we stood before the clergyman; our vows were pronounced, which with our prayers, I trust, were registered in heaven. Behold me now, my friends; look at the proud and happy being; see the swelling of his grateful heart. Was this the poor, despised, forsaken orphan, toiling through a thankless servitude, without a kind look or a cheering word; without pity, without a single comfort of any kind—suffering through twelve long years, and with a heart formed to love and be loved in return—could one short year have produced this blessed change? My bride!—oh, what a tender name! how sweetly it falls on the ear of the man of tender sensibility. It is a word in common use; it is heard daily; thousands and tens of thousands repeat it; in itself it is nothing; but to the young husband, when it comes to be _his_ bride, then does the magic of the name cast its glorious spell over him—it is then that he feels all its beauty and its loveliness.