There were gentlefolks among the crowd—a string of pony carts and carriages drawn up on the long slip of waste grass beyond the forge, just where the road turned off to Cheriton Chase; and there were two or three horsemen, one a young man upon a fine bay cob, who had been walking his horse about restlessly for the last hour or so, sometimes riding half a mile towards the station in his impatience. The carriage came towards the turning-point, the bride bowing and smiling as she returned the greetings of gentle and simple. Emotion had paled the delicate olive of her complexion, but her large dark eyes were bright with gladness. Her straw-coloured tussore gown and leghorn hat were the perfection of simplicity, and seemed to surround her with an atmosphere of coolness amidst the dust and glare of the road. At sight of the young man on the bay cob, she put her hand on Sir Godfrey’s arm and said something to him, on which he told the coachman to stop. They had driven slowly through the village, and the horses pulled up readily at the turn of the road. “Only to think of your coming so far to greet us, Theodore!” said Juanita, leaning out of the carriage to shake hands with the owner of the cob. “I wanted to be among the first to welcome you, that was all,” he answered quietly. “I had half a mind to ride to the station and be ready to hand you into your carriage, but I thought Sir Godfrey might think me a nuisance.” “No fear of that, my dear Dalbrook,” said the bridegroom. “I should have been very glad to see you. Did you ride all the way from Dorchester?” “Yes; I came over early in the morning, breakfasted with a friend, rested the cob all day, and now he is ready to carry me home again.” “What devotion!” said Juanita, laughingly, yet with a shade of embarrassment. “What good exercise for Peter, you mean. Keeps him in condition against the cubbing begins. God bless you, Juanita. I can’t do better than echo the invocation above our heads, ‘God bless the bride and bridegroom.’” He shook hands with them both for the second time. A faint glow of crimson swept over his frank fair face as he clasped those hands. His honest grey eyes looked at his cousin for a moment with grave tenderness, in which there was the shadow of a life-long regret. He had loved and wooed her, and resigned her to her more favoured lover, and he was honest in his desire for her happiness. His own gladness, his own life, seemed to him of small account when weighed against her well-being. “You must come and dine with us before we leave Cheriton, Dalbrook,” said Sir Godfrey. “You are very good. I am off to Heidelberg for a holiday as soon as I can wind up my office work. I will offer myself to you later on, if I may, when you are settled at the Priory.” “Come when you like. Good-bye.”