This reduced them all to calm. The coachman sat serenely overhead, contemplating the scene in the parlour with much satisfaction. His attention, however, was chiefly centred in the steaming rum-and-water, which, though it disgusted Arthur, looked very comfortable to the damp cabman in the drizzle, who was elderly, and had no particular interest in the bride. “Lord, how some folks does enjoy themselves!” he was saying in his secret soul. And, fortunately, there was no more time to think of the dress. Matilda wrapped her sister in her big shawl, and they all pressed round with kisses and farewells, of which Arthur had his share. He did not like them to kiss him, but how could he help it? He was on his good behaviour, ready to accept and forgive everything so long as he could get away. And when they at last drove from the door, what a relief it was! The Bates’ all stood in a circle outside, waving good-byes and yet more kisses, not heeding either the rain or the draggled spectators who stood by. Nor were the other missiles wanting which are common on such occasions. An old white shoe, one of those which Sarah Jane had danced to pieces on the night of the Volunteers’ ball, thrown violently after them, glanced in at the window, and fell on the opposite seat as they set out. Never was there a more squalid spell discharged at the shy and doubtful happiness for which Arthur Curtis had paid so great a price. He took it between his finger and thumb, and pitched it out of the window. Perhaps that, too, was an injudicious step to take. “I think you might have gone a little further off before you showed my folks how you despise them, Arthur,” cried Nancy, with flaming cheeks. Poor Arthur! there was not much laughter in his mood. But he made an effort to be light-hearted and gay. “It was too dirty for anything,” he said, laughing; and then he drew her within his arm, and said, “At last, Nancy! only you and I!” “Yes; you have got rid of them all at last,” said Nancy, making an effort to resist. But, after all, they were in love with each other, and had been married that morning. The incipient hostility dropped, and he forgave her dress, and she forgave his criticism. Her manners were as imperfect as her gown; but now she was free from all influences that were perverse, and she was his Nancy--his bride, the girl he loved, the object of his choice. He had paid dearly for the prize he was carrying away. It was not the time, certainly, to look out for flaws in that prize now.