Georgie was fully conscious of her privileges. No woman can twice in her life dress in white satin and orange blossoms, and if she mars the effect by the regulation tears, it is quite certain that there must be a screw loose somewhere. There was a great deal of tittering, smiling, and blushing; but the squire glanced at the clock, Lucy handed the bridal bouquet to her cousin, then the squire gave his daughter his arm, and, preceded by the bridesmaids, the little procession entered the carriages, and five minutes' drive brought them to the church. Haggard, when he cast his eyes upon Georgie Warrender, seemed to regain his composure at once; there must have been a terrible amount of forwardness about this young lady, for according to rule and the pictures in the illustrated papers, her eyes should have been fixed upon the ground; and as the latest etiquette book says, "the bride should only acknowledge the bridegroom's presence by an assumption of shrinking timidity suitable to the occasion." But the bride smiled at Haggard, and so did the vicar, and so did the four bridesmaids. The Reverend John Dodd didn't take long in tying the knot. The village organist had distinguished himself by his florid rendering of the Wedding March. As Lord Spunyarn gave his arm to Lucy Warrender, he almost felt as if he had been married himself, and that it was a rather pleasant process than otherwise. "It's rather rough on us, Miss Warrender, having to play second fiddle," he said, while they were standing in the vestry during the signing of the register. "Well, we can look upon it as a dress rehearsal, Lord Spunyarn; but we mustn't forget that it is a solemn moment, for I see that Mrs. Dodd is looking this way." The bells were clashing merrily from the village spire as the party passed out of the church porch. As Haggard handed his wife into the carriage, she appeared still lost to all sense of the proprieties, for she nodded and smiled in every direction at the King's Warren villagers, among whom she had grown up; even poor Blogg, the poacher, and his hoyden daughter, Jemima Ann, were not unnoticed. And the patriarchal blessing of the village veteran, "Master" Jasper, as he was called (who had represented King's Warren on the field of glory some five-and-forty years before, and stood bobbing his palsied head, arrayed in his holiday garment, a linen ephod or smock frock, to which his Waterloo medal was proudly affixed), was given heartily enough. "God bless 'ee, Missy," cried the old man in the shrill cracked voice of age, as he pressed up to the carriage window. "Thank you, Jasper," said the girl with a sunny smile. Strange to say, those two words gave the old fellow more pleasure than the thought of the unlimited potations he knew he would enjoy that afternoon at the squire's expense.