"I mind 'er mother--Lord knows 'ow many year ago, when I was a young chap," said the elder coachman, rolling his cigar between his lips--"an' you take my word for it, if this young lady ain't the very stuck image of 'er. I've only got to shut my eyes, an' I can see the child now--just so like the mother as ever was. And both of 'em with the same names, mind you. Miss Barbara then, an' Miss Barbara now." I listened wonderingly; I began dimly to understand. Coming a little nearer to them, I ventured to put a question, and they answered me respectfully enough. "There is to be a wedding to-day?" "There is that," exclaimed the landlord heartily. "A quiet weddin', mind you--because you can't exactly 'ave much fuss an' flummery with the grass not quite grown on a grave yet, can you?" "A grave?" I faltered. "Ah, a grave," said the landlord, glad of a chance to talk to a stranger. "Old Mr. Savell died some three months back--father of the bride, you understand. Had a stroke early in the winter, an' never recovered." "Never spoke, did 'e?" asked the younger coachman. "Never a word from the moment that the Lord struck 'im down," said the landlord, with a shake of his head. "Merciful release, in a manner o' speaking; the young folks must 'ave their chance, after the old 'uns is put away. Now, boys, it's time you was goin'; I'm going to give a look in at the church myself, in time to see a bit of the bride an' the young gentleman. Why--would you believe it--in a sense 'e belongs here; used to stop in this very place when first 'e came down a-courtin' the young lady. So, you see, it's only right as the _George_ should be represented, ain't it?" I found my way out of the place, and towards the church. There was a holiday feeling in the air, and a ringing of bells; I felt that I was strangely out of place. A sudden impulse to hide myself came upon me, and I went out beyond the town, and into that green wood--beautiful now in its spring dress--that had meant so much to me so often before. And there for a long time I sat, with the peace of God stealing into my heart, listening to the ringing of the bells, and thinking gratefully that all was well--that all was better, perhaps, because I stood outside it, and could touch it no more. Yet the bells drew me; they rang a tune in my ears that brought me at last to my feet, and set me upon the road to the church. There was a crowd about it now, and much jostling and laughter; I saw the round jolly face of the landlord of the _George_, and he was evidently still telling any one who would listen to him of his proprietary rights in the bridegroom. I managed to slip into the church, and found my way into a little curtained pew at the back of it, from which I could watch all that was going on, and yet remain unseen.