And assuredly a happier never drove to a church to meet her expectant bridegroom, her hand clasped lovingly between the kindly palms of her future mother, sitting by her side; and the affectionate glances of her uncle and aunt cast upon her from the opposite seat. She felt as if it were all a dream. She, the Irish beggar--the friendless--the wanderer--the orphan! And now so honoured! All whom she most cared for in the world, with the exception of Rowland, were assembled in that village church to meet her. There were Owen and his father--Miss Gwynne and Minette--Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero. Gentleness, gratitude and simple merit, were, for once rewarded, even in this world. The kind and worthy Uncle Jonathan--so soon to be _her_ uncle--married her. Her own uncle gave her, with prayers and blessings, to him whom she had loved so long and truly--her former mistress, now her fast friend, and another mistress's grandchild, were her bridesmaids. If a tear gathered in her eye, it was a tear of joy; and there, at the altar, amongst all those to whom she was henceforth to be united by the ties of relationship, she inwardly vowed to devote herself to their happiness, and to the fulfilment of the promises she was making to him who would be one with her for ever. The churchyard was full of spectators, as the proud and happy Owen led his bride through it to the vicarage, and the general opinion was, that there had never been married so handsome a couple in the church of Llanfach. The bells and the sunbeams rang out and shone out together, and all the wedding-party forgot their private sorrows in the joy of the moment. Even Netta, who had been taken to the vicarage for the occasion, received them with one of her old bright smiles. She threw her arms round Gladys, and called her 'sister.' '_My_ sister,' she said more than once emphatically. And if tears would, from time to time, spring into her eyes, as she contrasted herself with Gladys, she brushed them away, and did her best not to cast a shadow from her grief, on the brightness of a brother and sister's joy. That little drawing-room at the vicarage contained as pretty and pleasant a group as could well be seen, of which Owen and Gladys formed the centre figures. 'Now, my good girl, let me give you a real kiss,' said honest Mr Prothero, 'and tell you that I am proud of my daughter. Mother, what do you say?' 'I say, thank God for all His mercies,' said quiet Mrs Prothero, shaking Gladys' hand, which she seemed loath to part with. If there is a great variety of character and feeling displayed in shaking hands, there assuredly is, also, in kissing. Gladys experienced it in that same little drawing-room, where she submitted her blushing cheeks to all sorts of impressions.