She did not yield him her lips—she did not even leave him her hand, but shuddered and coldly withdrew herself. David Lindsay turned deadly pale. The priest and the witnesses looked surprised. Such an exhibition of unkindness, not to say rudeness, they had never seen in all their experience. “Come into the vestry, if you please,” then said the priest. David Lindsay, struck to the heart by his bride’s repulsion, recovered himself by an effort, drew her arm within his own and followed the clergyman. The two sacristans and the three witnesses brought up the rear. The parish register lay open on the table. The newly married pair were now required to sign their names. David Lindsay steadied himself and wrote his in clear characters. Gloria’s hand shook so in her attempt to write that the scratches and blotches she made might have meant anything or nothing. The witnesses affixed their signatures, and the deed was done. Then David Lindsay courteously thanked the priest and shook hands with him, leaving in his palm a very liberal fee. Finally, he drew the arm of his bride under his own to lead her forth. As he led her down the aisle, on their way out of the church, some whispered words among the three women who had witnessed their marriage, and who now followed close behind them, fell on his ears. “A runaway match, as sure as you are born, and the girl repents already. She looks like death, she does,” said one woman. “She’s scared nearly out of her wits for fear her father or somebody will be after her,” said another. “I declare I don’t know how any conscientious minister of the gospel ever can find it in his mind to marry a runaway couple—and such children as these are, too. I must say, I am astonished at Mr. O’Halloran!” added the third woman. “Well, for my part,” recommenced the first, “if one of my daughters should be so lost to all sense of propriety as to go off with any young man, I should be exceedingly thankful to the first minister, or even magistrate, who should tie them lawfully together.” “To be sure, there is something in that, which I never thought of before,” answered the caviler. David Lindsay drew his trembling companion on faster, in order to escape hearing any more of these unpleasant comments. He took her out and put her in the carriage, stepped in, and seated himself by her side and ordered the hack to drive back to the hotel. “Gloria, dear Gloria, my own dearest lady,” he began, as he took one of her frozen hands. “DON’T speak to me! DON’T touch me!” she exclaimed, snatching her hand from his gentle hold, pulling her veil over her face, and tucking her head down in a corner of the cushions. “Ah! what have I done to offend you, lady?” he pleaded. “BE SILENT, I say! And keep your hands to yourself, unless you wish to kill me! But you may do that one thing! You may kill me, if you like! I wish you would!” “Great Heaven! Gloria, what is the matter with you?”