A thrill of horror at so foolish a jest from the ringers passed through us all. But the ringers themselves dropped the ropes and fled like rabbits out into the sunlight. The bride shuddered, and grey shadows came about her mouth, but the bridegroom led her on down the path where the people stood with the handfuls of rice; but the handfuls were never thrown, and the wedding-bells never rang. In vain the ringers were urged to remedy their mistake: they protested with many whispered expletives that they would see themselves further first. In a hush like the hush in the chamber of death the bridal pair passed into their carriage and its door slammed behind them. Then the tongues were loosed. A babel of anger, wonder, conjecture from the guests and the spectators. "If I'd seen his condition, sir," said old Forster to me as we drove off, "I would have stretched him on the floor of the church, sir, by Heaven I would, before I'd have let him marry my daughter!" Then he put his head out of the window. "Drive like hell," he cried to the coachman; "don't spare the horses." He was obeyed. We passed the bride's carriage. I forebore to look at it, and old Forster turned his head away and swore. We reached home before it. We stood in the hall doorway, in the blazing afternoon sun, and in about half a minute we heard wheels crunching the gravel. When the carriage stopped in front of the steps old Forster and I ran down. "Great Heaven, the carriage is empty! And yet----" I had the door open in a minute, and this is what I saw-- No sign of John Charrington; and of May, his wife, only a huddled heap of white satin lying half on the floor of the carriage and half on the seat. "I drove straight here, sir," said the coachman, as the bride's father lifted her out; "and I'll swear no one got out of the carriage." We carried her into the house in her bridal dress and drew back her veil. I saw her face. Shall I ever forget it? White, white and drawn with agony and horror, bearing such a look of terror as I have never seen since except in dreams. And her hair, her radiant blonde hair, I tell you it was white like snow. As we stood, her father and I, half mad with the horror and mystery of it, a boy came up the avenue--a telegraph boy. They brought the orange envelope to me. I tore it open. "_Mr. Charrington was thrown from the dogcart on his way to the station at half-past one. Killed on the spot!_" And he was married to May Forster in our parish church at _half-past three_, in presence of half the parish. "_I shall be married, dead or alive!_" What had passed in that carriage on the homeward drive? No one knows--no one will ever know. Oh, May! oh, my dear! Before a week was over they laid her beside her husband in our little churchyard on the thyme-covered hill--the churchyard where they had kept their love-trysts. Thus was accomplished John Charrington's wedding. _UNCLE ABRAHAM'S ROMANCE._