Miss Huckins grew more profoundly scornful. “Do you know any himpediment w’y we should not be lawfully joined together in matrimony?” “Why,” said the perturbed cleric, “he doesn’t want you.” “‘E doesn’t know what ’e wants,” returned Sophronia, grimly; “if women waited for men to find out w’en they wanted wives, there’d be more old maids than there is. If you’ll be good enough to take your book in your ’and, sir, I’ll see to ’im.” Bilson made one last faint protest. “‘Twouldn’t be right, Sophronia,” he wailed; “I ain’t wot I was; I’m a wuthless and a busted wreck. I can’t tie no woman to me for life. It ain’t doin’ justice to neither.” “If you’re what you say you are,” said Sophronia, imperturbably, “and you know better than I do, you should be glad to take wot you can get. If I’m suited, don’t _you_ complain.” “Mrs. Huckins,” the young clergyman broke in, feebly asserting himself, “this is utterly irregular.” “I know it is,” said Sophronia; “and we’re a–waitin’ for you to set it straight.” The two chore–girls giggled. A warm flush mounted to Mr. Chizzy’s pale face. He hesitated a second; then nervously opened his book, and began the service. Sophronia stood by the bedside, clasping Bilson’s hand in a grasp which no writhing could loosen. “Dearly beloved,” Mr. Chizzy began, addressing the two chore–girls; and with a trembling voice he hurried on to the important question: “Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?—“ “N—yah!” Bilson had begun to say “No;” but Sophronia’s firm hand had tightened on his with so powerful a pressure that his negative remonstrance ended in a positive yell. “Ah, _really_,” broke in Mr. Chizzy; “I can not proceed, M—M—Miss—ah, what’s your name?—I positively can’t!” “_Mrs. Bilson_,” returned the unmoved Sophronia. “Are you intending for to part ’usband and wife at this point, sir? Excuse me; but we’re a–waitin’ of your convenience.” Mr. Chizzy was a deep red in the face. His pallor had given place to a flush quite as ghastly in its way. The blood was waltzing in giddy circles through his brain as he read on and on. No church—no candles—no robes—no choiring boys. Only this awful woman, stern as death, commanding him and Bilson. Why had he yielded to her? Why had he permitted himself to be dragged hither? Why was he meekly doing her bidding? Mr. Chizzy felt as though he were acting in some ghastly, nightmarish dream. “_Then shall the Minister say_: Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?” That roused Mr. Chizzy from his trance. It came late; but it seemed to open a way out of the horribly irregular business. He paused and tried to fix an uncertain eye on Sophronia. “Have you a Father or a Friend here?” he demanded. “Jim!” said Sophronia, loudly. “Ma’am?” came a voice from the lower story of the stable. [Illustration] “Say ‘I do.’” “Ma’am?” “Say ‘I do’—an’ say it directly!” “Say—say?—what do you want, Miss Huckins?”