"Well, what do you think of her?" asked Markworth, when Susan had gone up-stairs to take her things off, under the charge of the old landlady. "What do I think, Mister Markworth? Well, I think you are put in luck's way. She's as pretty a young lady, and as ladylike a one as I ever seed." "You don't see anything about her, do you?" he asked anxiously. "Queer? not I; she's a bit nervous, in course, but I'd bet she's as sensible a lady as you or I." "Thank you, Joe, good day; I want you to be here at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. You must not be late; it will be my marriage day." "Never fear, sir; I'll be here sharp ten," and the confederates separated--the marker to go back to his billiard-room, where he had left a friend watching over the interest of his pool table, and Markworth to think over the day and study his plans. On the next morning, Wednesday, August 28th, 1867, Susan Hartshorne was married to Allynne Markworth, at the church of St. Catherine's Cross the Less, Johnson's Lane, E.C., in the presence of Joseph Begg and the parish clerk, witnesses. END OF VOLUME ONE. Volume 2, Chapter I. "A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH!" Imagine the unexpected arrival of the murdered Duncan's wraith at Macbeth's correct little dinner party, just after the soup had been removed--a break-down of the Prima Donna at the Opera, while executing some grand _scena_--or, in these High Church days of fashionable banns-publishing, the sudden uprising of some stern parent or Nemisitical Mawworm, to interrupt the glib utterance of the hair-parted-down-the-middle and lavender-kid-gloved curate of the period with the solemn veto, in basso profundo voice, "I forbid the banns!"-- and you will have some idea of the alteration and effect which the young imp's mischief created in the programme of Lady Inskip's pic-nic. The whole company soon hurried after the doctor in real alarm; even Captain Curry Cucumber, forgetting his liver, and the not-fit-for-much-exertion officers, their lisp and laziness, were in a few moments on the scene of the accident: whither too, Laura presently appeared, leaning on Pringle's arm; for she honestly was nervous, and had been really frightened. It was a very dramatic _pose_. Tom was lying on the ground, half-supported in Lizzie's arms, a red stream of blood trickling down from his right side, while Doctor Jolly was bending over him, dashing water in his face. It is wonderful how much more composed in scenes of suffering and danger women are than men, that is when their services are required. Tell a girl that a man is shot or someone drowned, and she will immediately, perhaps, burst into tears, and wail and ring her hands; but tell her to hold his head up, or fetch water--only to do something, and she will be as composed as you please, and will set about doing the work far more steadily and usefully--in a workmanlike manner, so to speak--than you could get any man to do it.