All at once the bells of Hillmartin burst out with a merry peal, as if they had caught the contagion of happy nature, and sent their musical cadences over wood and valley, giving them the voice of delight, which seemed only wanting to communicate their full tide of new-born pleasure to the hearts of men. The next instant, the three old jangling bells of Cotmanhaye broke out into the best music that they could make, which was but indifferent, but yet had a note of gladness in it, like the voice of some uncouth labourer, whom nature never meant for a musician, but who goes homeward over the dusky slopes of evening, chanting discordantly some rude country song,—there was a happy heart in its limping clangour, which made it welcome. The discord mingling with the harmony of the bells of Hillmartin was toned down into a symphony which was familiar to the ears of the people of the neighbourhood, who knew that it meant, at least, rejoicing. At once the weeders in the corn, and the cottagers in the villages of Hillmartin and Woodburn, stood still, and said, “What is that for?” And presently, from one quarter or another came the answer, “It is a peal of welcome for Mr. George Woodburn, who last night brought home his wife to Bilts’ Farm.” “Wife to Bilts’ Farm! Why, what wife?” “Why, Miss Drury, to be sure!” was the answer of women’s unerring instincts. “Who else should it be?” “And all forgotten and forgiven?” said the simple people, thoughtfully. “There was nothing to forgive,” said one clear-headed village woman. “But there are things, no doubt, which can never be forgotten; and Miss Drury must have a stout heart to come back after what has passed here.” “There’s that in the case,” said an old, grey-headed fellow, “that has the stoutest heart of all—and that is, true love for a true man; and if there be a true man, it is our sober, steady, sensible George Woodburn. May God bless him as he deserves; and He has surely begun it in giving him such a sweet, brave-hearted wife as Elizabeth Drury. You may see it in her face, the very first time you look in it, that she’s one of nature’s true women—loving, and kind, and sensible. Thank God, for sending another such a lady here.” The event was a holiday in Woodburn, and Hillmartin, and Cotmanhaye, though nobody stopped their work for it; but there was a talking, and a burst of good wishes, and a flush of pleasure in the women’s eyes, and a bright, hearty look about the men, that showed that by everybody’s consent George Woodburn had made the right choice.