“So hard, Hally, for _me_, remember, as well as yourself, that we will not make the attempt. Now, I want you to place yourself in my hands, and start for Paris to-night!” “To-night?” she cried, lifting such a flushed, startled, happy face from his breast, that he had no alternative but to kiss it again. “Yes! to-night! What did I tell you yesterday--that I should come with the ring and the license in my pocket! I am as good as my word, and better--for I have given notice to the registrar of marriages in my district, that he is to be ready for us at twelve o’clock to-day. Am I not a good manager?” “Tony! Tony! but I have not made up my mind!” “I have made it up for you, and I will take no refusal! I have calculated it all to a nicety! Married at twelve--back here at one for lunch--a couple of hours to pack up, and off by the four o’clock train for Dover--sleep at the Castle Warden, and cross to-morrow to Paris! How will that do, Mrs. Pennell, eh?” “Oh! ought I to do it, ought I to do it?” exclaimed Harriet, with a look of despair. “If you don’t I’ll shoot myself. I swear it!” “No! no! darling, don’t say that! It is of you alone that I am thinking! God forgive me if I am doing wrong, but I feel that I cannot refuse you! Take me and do with me as you think best.” After which it came to pass, that Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Pennell started in very high spirits for Dover, by the four o’clock train that afternoon. CHAPTER XVIII. A fortnight afterwards, the married couple found themselves at Nice. Much as has been said and sung of the _lune de miel_, none ever surpassed, if it ever reached, this one in happiness. Harriet passed the time in a silent ecstasy of delight. Her cup of bliss was filled to overflowing; her satisfaction was too deep for words. To this girl, for whom the world had been seen as yet only through the barred windows of a convent--who had never enjoyed the society of an intellectual companion before; who had viewed no scenery but that of the Island; seen no records of the past; and visited no foreign capital--the first weeks of her married life were a panorama of novelties, her days one long astonishment and delight. She could not adore Anthony Pennell sufficiently for having afforded her the opportunity of seeing all this, and more especially of feeling it. The presents he lavished upon her were as nothing in her eyes, compared to the lover-like attentions he paid her; the bouquets of flowers he brought her every morning; the glass of lemonade or milk he had ready to supply her need when they were taking their excursions; the warm shawl or mantle he carried on his arm in the evenings, lest the air should become too chilly for her delicate frame after sunset. Money Harriet had no need of, but love--love she had thirsted for, as the hart thirsts for the water-streams, yet had never imagined it could be poured out at her feet, as her husband poured it now.