‘Yes, ‘twas a pretty wedden, and well attended,’ added the clerk. ‘Here was my lady herself--red as scarlet: here was Master Springrove, looken as if he half wished he’d never a-come--ah, poor souls!--the men always do! The women do stand it best--the maid was in her glory. Though she was so shy the glory shone plain through that shy skin. Ah, it did so’s.’ ‘Ay,’ said Gad, ‘and there was Tim Tankins and his five journeymen carpenters, standen on tiptoe and peepen in at the chancel winders. There was Dairyman Dodman waiten in his new spring-cart to see ‘em come out--whip in hand--that ‘a was. Then up comes two master tailors. Then there was Christopher Runt wi’ his pickaxe and shovel. There was wimmen-folk and there was men-folk traypsen up and down church’ard till they wore a path wi’ traypsen so--letten the squallen children slip down through their arms and nearly skinnen o’ em. And these were all over and above the gentry and Sunday-clothes folk inside. Well, I seed Mr. Graye at last dressed up quite the dand. “Well, Mr. Graye,” says I from the top o’ church’ard wall, “how’s yerself?” Mr. Graye never spoke--he’d prided away his hearen. Seize the man, I didn’ want en to spak. Teddy hears it, and turns round: “All right, Gad!” says he, and laughed like a boy. There’s more in Teddy.’ ‘Well,’ said Clerk Crickett, turning to the man in black, ‘now you’ve been among us so long, and d’know us so well, won’t ye tell us what ye’ve come here for, and what your trade is?’ ‘I am no trade,’ said the thin man, smiling, ‘and I came to see the wickedness of the land.’ ‘I said thou wast one o’ the devil’s brood wi’ thy black clothes,’ replied a sturdy ringer, who had not spoken before. ‘No, the truth is,’ said the thin man, retracting at this horrible translation, ‘I came for a walk because it is a fine evening.’ ‘Now let’s be off, neighbours,’ the clerk interrupted. The candle was inverted in the socket, and the whole party stepped out into the churchyard. The moon was shining within a day or two of full, and just overlooked the three or four vast yews that stood on the south-east side of the church, and rose in unvaried and flat darkness against the illuminated atmosphere behind them. ‘Good-night,’ the clerk said to his comrades, when the door was locked. ‘My nearest way is through the park.’ ‘I suppose mine is too?’ said the stranger. ‘I am going to the railway-station.’ ‘Of course--come on.’ The two men went over a stile to the west, the remainder of the party going into the road on the opposite side. ‘And so the romance has ended well,’ the clerk’s companion remarked, as they brushed along through the grass. ‘But what is the truth of the story about the property?’ ‘Now look here, neighbour,’ said Clerk Crickett, ‘if so be you’ll tell me what your line o’ life is, and your purpose in comen here to-day, I’ll tell you the truth about the wedden particulars.’ ‘Very well--I will when you have done,’ said the other man.