The manner of Miss Blake’s coming was well known to the initiated. There were no high-stepping brown horses to convey _her_ to the churchyard-gate; and if the arrival of the first performers in the little drama were delayed, it was probably because the wheels of the Leigh “fly” tarried in the narrow lanes (deeply rutted by the passage of Farmer Clay’s wagons) which led up to the farm-house. It was an ancient vehicle, and had been called originally, I believe, a barouche-landau, which had been called into requisition to convey the bride and as many of the Clay family as could conveniently be packed into it to the village church that day. “Make yourselves as small as you can, children, for fear of tumbling Honor’s frock,” the good-natured farmer had said as he deposited his two delighted little girls in the roomy carriage, and then, his own portly person being perched on the box-seat, the equipage drove off. The party, with the exception of the bride, who was rather pale and thoughtful, was in high spirits; and if the Leigh “fly” did smell a trifle mouldy, and if the busy hungry moths had drilled a few round holes in the dingy drab lining, why what mattered it to them? It was none the less able to carry bright Honor Blake to her bridal; none the less in the children’s eyes a grand part of the brilliant pageant which would, for many a day to come, render that sweet first day of May a bright spot in their memories. “O, mother! if there isn’t milady’s carriage!” exclaimed Ruth, a rather precocious young lady of ten, who had very unwillingly abdicated in favour of that “owdacious” Jenny the honour and glory of holding the bride’s bouquet at the altar; and Mrs. Clay, as she afterwards expressed herself, was “struck all of a quiver” with the shock of perceiving that the Castle carriage had arrived before them. Through the little iron gate between the yew-trees, which was set wide open to receive them--and very near to which Honor, in her agitation, did _not_ perceive the two young men, Lady Millicent’s sons, standing to witness the rural show--the simple _cortège_ passed. Mr. Clay, a sturdy yeoman-like looking man, attired in a Sunday costume, in which he never either seemed or felt at home, tucked the bride, to whom he was about to play the part of father, tightly under his arm, and the rest following, they walked slowly up the rising ground between the rows of commemorative tombstones to the church.