Her voice, which had risen occasionally while she spoke, now sank into an inarticulate murmur, and her head dropped, and the rocking of her chair nearly ceased. The little girl looked at her with increasing wonder and dread. Suddenly Maud raised her head, and after seeming to listen for a moment, cried, "Michael," in one wild and dissonant shriek. "What voice was that on the wind?" she continued, rising abruptly from the chair. "Who hailed that name?--Michael," she called again, in the same unearthly tone--"didst hear? 'T was his own. Didst hear how it wailed on the wind?--Michael--The waters are sounding in my ears. Didst hear the name, girl?--Drowning.--Ay, it was he--it was he." Her voice had declined to a hoarse whisper, and her limbs relaxed, and she sank, rather then fell, to the ground. The little girl ran terrified from the lodge to seek for help. When the neighbours whom she summoned returned thither, they found the old woman huddled together in a heap upon the floor. They raised her up, but life had departed: she had rejoined her daughter, Margaret Trevethlan. CHAPTER XVII. O blisful ordre, O wedlock precious, Thou art so mery, and so virtuous, And so commended, and approved eke, That every man that holt him worth a leke, Upon his bare knees oughten all his lif Thanken his God that him hath sent a wif; Or elles pray to God him for to send A wif to last until his lives end. Chaucer. Odious are town-weddings. To our fancy there is something appalling in the splendour with which the ceremony is invested. And it seems to defeat its object; for the festivities which follow the departure of the new-married pair are proverbially dull. But the train of carriages, the cloud of bride-maids, and all the rest of the pomp and parade, appear to us more fitted to gratify the taste of the mob on the pavement, than to show the refinement of the nineteenth century. A solemn rite is converted into a theatrical entertainment. What should be a scene of deep and heart-felt joy becomes a laborious piece of acting. The bridal wreath is sullied by the incense which rises round it. To be sure if there is no heart in the business, if the gist of the union is to be found in the settlements, and the promise to love, honour, and obey is made as a matter of form, then the scenic character of the accessaries is perhaps in keeping, and may serve to throw a decorous veil over the sacrifice. But the village-church is the proper shrine for matrimony. The rustics who make a holiday of the occasion, and come in their Sunday raiment to take respectful leave of their squire's daughter, form a much more seemly retinue, than the gamins and idlers who throng the portico of the London church, staring with rude wonder, and eager for vulgar satire. And is it a childish desire that would fain invest the spot where our fondest hopes were crowned, with a little romance? May we not