“Then don’t,” said Westcott; and rising, he brought close together the bottles of mixed sweets and almond-rock in the window. “There, now you can’t see nor be seen. Are you better, my angel?” “Rather,” responded Lydia in a faint voice. “And yet I’m all of a tremble. What if he was to fall?” “We’d mingle our tears over his grave,” said the sailor. “Now, look you here.” “I can’t; I’ve such a swimming in my head. O Jack! I can still see something—a fog has swept over the top of the spire; or is it that my eyes are deceived? He’s gone! He’s gone!” “It is so—a passing drift of vapour. He’s all right. It will cool him. Now, Lydia, this won’t do. You’ll fret yourself into a brain-fever if you look at him even between the interstices of sweetie-bottles and biscuit-tins. I must convey you where you cannot see him at all; and there’s no place better than inside the church. And, by ginger! there goes the parson. I’ll call him; he will let us in. And—Lydia, I took the precaution to have a license; it cost me half-a-guinea—here it is. You’d never be so unreasonable as to have that chucked away, so come along.” “O Jack! I wouldn’t do anything as wasn’t right and honourable. He, up there”—with her chin she indicated the top of the spire, then enveloped in fog—“he’ll expect to have me if he brings down the stag.” “Not a bit, my dear. Nothing was set down in writing, but I call you to witness—he who had the choice was to go up the spire and leave the coast clear for the other to propose, and to offer no just cause or impediment. Was it not so?” “I did not quite understand it in that light.” “But I did.” “Will Mr. Newbold, though?” “My dear Lydia, he is up in a fog. England expects every man to do his dooty. Here’s the license. Come along.” * * * * * Two hours later, with a triumphant air and firm stride, the builder entered the shop, dragging along an immense battered weathercock detached from the spindle. It had once been gilt, it was now in a rusty, measly condition. Within he saw the widow and sailor side by side. “Done!” shouted he. “I’ve got the cock!” “Done!” replied the mariner. “I’ve won the hen!” “I’ve been up in the clouds,” said Newbold. “And I _am_ in the seventh heaven. I’ve not been in the clouds like you. Let me introduce you to Mrs. Westcott!” A PLUM-PUDDING A PLUM-PUDDING As far as man could suppose, every element that goes to make up happiness was united to bless Mr. and Mrs. Birdwood.