“Dear now! don’t you take on,” urged Martha. “I thought, d’ye see, I’d just pop up to London for a few days by myself, an’ you can stop an’ mind the house, an’ maybe some time in the winter we mid both on us take a few days together somewhere.” William gazed at her reproachfully. “Ye didn’t ought to want to go a-pleasurin’ wi’out I,” said he. “No more I would, my dear,” returned his future better-half, “if it could be helped. But ’twas yourself as named the day, an’ if ye won’t have it put off----” The carpenter, with a vigorous shake of the head, intimated that he certainly would not have it put off. “Well, then,” summed up Martha triumphantly, “ye must agree to let me have a bit o’ honeymoon. ’Tis what every bride expects, an’ ’tis the one thought what have kept my heart up all these years. I’ve always promised myself this holiday afore I settled down to wedded life.” William stared at her gloomily, but made no further opposition; and she informed him in a cheerful tone that he need not fear her staying away too long. “We’ll have the weddin’ o’ Monday mornin’,” said she, “quite private-like. The neighbours all know we can’t have a great set-out here, on account o’ poor father. An’ you can carry my bag to the station directly we leave church, an’ I’ll be back again Saturday night, so as we can go to church together Sunday mornin’. Will that do ye?” “’Twill have to do me, I s’pose,” returned William, still with profound melancholy. “’Tis by your own wish, ye know,” said the bride; “if you hadn’t held out for us to be married all in such a hurry, I’m sure I should have been glad for us to take our honeymoon together, my dear. But ye can’t have everythin’ in this world.” “No,” agreed Faithfull, with a groan; “no, that ye can’t. ’Twould ha’ been more nat’ral-like to go on our honeymoon together; but what must be, must be.” On the Monday morning the much-discussed wedding took place; bride and bridegroom were alike clad in new and glossy black, Martha’s blushing countenance being scarcely visible beneath her crape “fall”. The villagers were all much impressed; there is nothing indeed that the rustic mind so thoroughly appreciates as the panoply of woe, and to find this mourning ceremonial united with marriage pomp was felt to be a rare privilege, and, as such, productive of sincere admiration. When the wedded pair left church, their friends and neighbours hastened to offer congratulations, attuned to a becoming note of dismalness, which intimated that condolence lay behind; and it was a rude shock for all when William was suddenly hailed in a tone of most discordant cheerfulness. A tall, black-eyed woman had suddenly rushed forward and seized him by the hand. “There, now! So I wasn’t in time after all! I made sure I’d get here soon enough to see the weddin’. I did always say I’d come to your weddin’, didn’t I, William? I thought it very unkind of ye not to ax me.”