flattering” for them all. But poor Arthur had no intention of flattering. He could do nothing but sit in his lodgings, or in the Bates’ parlour, and watch the progress of the hours. After the wedding he vowed to himself he would change all that; there would be an entire revolution in his life; he would escape with his Nancy into a better and fresher air, and when they asked about the return of the pair, he did his best to evade the question. “I don’t think we must bind ourselves to anything, Mrs. Bates. If Nancy likes Paris we may stay there--or if we can get as far as Italy----” “Oh, I shan’t stay very long, mamma,” said Nancy, “I daresay I shall soon get tired among foreigners.” “Shouldn’t I like to see you,” cried Mrs. Bates, “you that know the language! What a good thing it is you that is going, and not Matilda or Sarah Jane.” “Oh I should soon have got on,” said the latter personage. “I should soon have picked it up, _commeng vous portez vous_; I know a little already.” “But not like Nancy, who had French for five quarters at Miss Woodroof’s, when your poor dear aunt was alive. My sister was one that thought a great deal of education--” “I wish you would not all talk together,” said Nancy, whose temper was not improved by her important position. “I hated it. I never learned a word I could help. I’ll let Arthur do all the talking; and as soon as ever we can, you’ll see us home.” “On the contrary,” said Arthur, with secret uneasiness, “you will like Paris so well that you will never wish to leave it. It is so gay and bright; and if we can go on as far as Italy--that is what I should like most.” “Anyhow, you will be back before Christmas?” “Oh, Christmas! long before that!” said Nancy. Arthur said nothing; but he recorded a vow in the depths of his heart. CHAPTER XI. Durant met Lucy at the station on the morning of Arthur’s wedding day. She was under the charge of old Mrs. Davies, the confidential woman who had nursed Lady Curtis’s children through their sicknesses, and petted them at all times and seasons since ever they were born. Lucy was very pale, but her distress was nothing to that of old Davies, who seemed to think it her duty to cry all the way, and heaved from time to time the bitterest sighs. “Oh, my dear young gentleman,” she said at intervals, “Oh, Master Arthur! to think as I should have lived to see such a day!” This did not improve Lucy’s spirits, who sat very pale in a corner, sometimes piteously lifting her eyes to Durant for sympathy. The day chosen for Arthur’s marriage was the 1st of November, as inappropriate a moment for a wedding as could well be imagined, All Saints’ day, the anniversary of death, not of bridal, and a gloomy morning, with a soft persistent drizzle of rain, and skies that looked like lead. “I hope the sun will shine a little,” said Lucy. “Oh, Miss Lucy,” said old Davies, “why should the sun shine? They can’t expect no happiness, flying in the face of their parents like this.”