It ever remained a doubt in the village, what was the exact age of the major. Many were of an opinion that sixty winters had frosted his brow. Others again asserted that he did not number, by a score, as many years as his bride. These latter, however, were the ladies. Thursday arrived—and, after a weary watching from many a beaming eye, the sun at length disappeared behind the distant mountains, and twilight gently threw over the glowing sky its mantle of sombre gray. Lights flitted to and fro through the houses; an unusual bustle hummed through the quiet streets; the horses, disturbed after a day of labor, to be brought forth and harnessed to whatever vehicle their masters could boast of possessing, hung down their weary heads, with slow and measured steps patiently submitting to the yoke of bondage. The sudden glare of lights, that streamed through the casements of the white cottage over the gravel walks, announced that preparations had ceased, and that visitors were momentarily expected. There was the bride, her tall gaunt figure arrayed in white, flitting from room to room, not knowing where to station herself to make the best impression, and inwardly chafing at the perfume of tobacco that met her olfactory nerves, and the loss of her reticule, wherein were the keys of sundry closets and so forth, when the door opened and Mr., Mrs., and the four Misses Potts, with Miss Clapper, beheld the bride upon knees and hands, looking under an immense old-fashioned settee for her lost treasure. Mrs. Micalf looked up, sprang to her feet, uttered a faint scream, and for a moment hid her face—then yielded her cheek to the salutations of the six ladies, and with much coyness permitted Mr. Potts to touch the tip of her ear. “Well, I declare, I think you served us a pretty trick, Mrs. Micalf—a lady of your years to make a moonlight flitting—oh, fie!” cried Miss Clapper, in a querulous voice. “Oh, spare me, dear friends; I feel the full force of the imprudence of the step. But be this my excuse, ‘I’ve scanned the actions of his daily life,’ and flatter myself I have secured happiness.” “And Mr. Micalf to steal away so—he who hates walking so. Why, I thought it would almost have killed him to walk so far.” “You are right, old lady,” cried the groom, who had entered unperceived, and slapping Miss Clapper upon the shoulder; “I can’t believe it yet; I haven’t drawn a long breath since—wheugh!—But Die would not be married any other way, though I told her we were making a couple of old fools of ourselves—wheugh—u—u—Never mind, Die, don’t be cast down at being called old—we all know you were young once! ha, ha! wheugh—u! Come, Potts, let’s go and drink good luck to midnight walks.” “Mr. Micalf is so boisterous when he is in good spirits, and he does so love to plague me!” cried the bride, the quivering of her nostrils and upper lip expressing the workings of the inward passions.