Mrs. Tremaine’s eyes turned toward Angela. It came upon her that to keep Angela would be a hold, a thread of communication with Neville, and besides she loved the girl and would not have been capable of casting her out. Richard spoke decisively, however, and no one disputed what he said. He looked at the clock and it was half past two. “Mr. Lyddon,” he said, “will you ride to the rectory and wake Mr. Brand up and bring him here at once? I myself will get the license from Mr. Wynne, the clerk of the court. It is six miles away, but I can do it in an hour and a half.” He turned, and called out to Peter, whose solemn, chocolate-colored face was peering in from the back porch, “Go and saddle the horses at once and bring them up.” “Thank you,” said Neville briefly. Everything was done properly when Richard took charge. Angela and Neville stood looking at each other uncertain where to go. Neville had been invited to leave his father’s house, and he was not the man to tarry after having received such an invitation. He glanced at Angela’s lovely disheveled hair and then said to her: “You must go and dress to be married, and put a hood on your head, for we shall be married out of doors. I will wait for you outside.” Angela passed swiftly up the stairs, and Neville walked the length of the hall without once turning. Mrs. Tremaine, usually the calmest and most self-controlled of women, could have shrieked aloud with pain at the sight. Neville almost walked into Mammy Tulip’s arms, those faithful black arms in which he had been cradled. In her place of privilege, she poured forth her love and indignation. “Never you min’, chile,” she cried. “Ef yo’ mar ain’t gwine to speak to you no mo’, yo’ mammy lub you jes’ de same, honey. ’Tain’t gwine to make a bit o’ diffunce cuz you is in de Yankee army, yo’ mammy will tek car’ o’ Miss Angela fur you, an’ I gwine to knit you some socks an’ sen’ you. Yo’ ole mammy ain’t gwine furgit you.” “Thank you, mammy,” Neville answered, putting his arm around her neck. “Now you can do one thing for me at this moment. Go upstairs and help Angela to make ready for our wedding.” Angela had sped up the stairs and was in her own large room with its great curtained bed. She was to dress for her wedding, but how strange was everything. She threw off her crimson mantle and sitting down before her dressing table began to comb out her long, thick hair. There was occasion for haste; she should spend every moment possible with Neville, but her mind as well as her body seemed dull and nerveless. As she sat helpless before her mirror, Mammy Tulip waddled in. “I come to he’p dress you, honey,” she said. “Marse Neville, he sont me. What you gwine git married in, chile?”