“The major bowed, for he could not speak. The odd little fellow arose with the word, and taking the major’s hand, gave a spring from the ground, and in an instant they were sailing away through the air, over wood, river, hill, and valley, until they alighted at the door of a lone, solitary house, at the foot of a mountain. His companion pushed open the door, without ceremony, and they stood in the presence of a large company, apparently assembled to witness a marriage, for the bride, with her bridemaids, was sitting at the head of the room, and the company, especially the young ladies, were smiling and smirking as they always do on such occasions. The only thing wanting was a groom, and when the major took a second look at the bride, he did not wonder that he delayed his coming to the last moment. She was an old, withered beldame, sixty years of age, at the least, with a yellow skin, a hook nose, a sharp protruding chin, and little sunken grey eyes that leered on the major, as the door opened, with most provoking familiarity. Her ugliness was more apparent from the extreme beauty of the bridemaids, who seemed as if they might have been Houris from Paradise. As the major entered, the bridal company arose simultaneously. The parson stepped forward and opened his book. Every eye was turned upon the new-comers. “‘You are very late, my love,’ said the old hag, turning to the major. “‘Late!—my love!’ said he, starting back, and turning with astonishment, from his conductor, to the bride. “‘I have brought you to your wedding, you see,’ said the odd little fellow composedly, with a tantalising grin, ‘didn’t I hear you say, on the common, “that you’d like to see the woman you’d marry,” didn’t I?’ and he grinned again. “‘Yes—my duck,’ simpered the hateful bride, leering on the major, ‘and I’ve been so alarmed lest you might have met with an accident to detain you. _Why_ were you so long?’ and she placed her hand fondly on the major’s arm. “‘Hands off,’ thundered the major, springing back, and again turning bewildered from one to another of his tormenters. “‘Come, come, now, major,’ said his conductor, with a malicious grin, ‘it’s no use to resist, for _that_,’ said he with emphasis, pointing to the old hag, ‘is your bride. It is fate; and what is written, is written you know. I’ve no doubt,’ and here he gave another malicious grin, ‘that your married life in future will be one of unmitigated felicity. Come,—don’t you see the parson’s waiting?’ “‘Yes, dear,’ said the bride, distorting her withered jaws into what was meant for a smile, ‘and don’t let us think, by any more hard words,’ and here she tried to sob, ‘that your fatigues have thrown you into a fever and delirium.’