The crowd of ragged people, who always cluster to witness what they may of an aristocratic wedding, broke into audible admiration of the bride’s beauty and the bridegroom’s manliness, and uttered prayers and ejaculations (possibly paid for in alms) for the happiness of both.  If the most favorable of earthly conditions could make them happy, they had every prospect of it.  They were going to live on their abundance in one of those stately and delightful English homes, such as no other people ever created or inherited, a hall set far and safe within its own private grounds, and surrounded with venerable trees, shaven lawns, rich shrubbery, and trimmest pathways, the whole so artfully contrived and tended that summer rendered it a paradise, and even winter would hardly disrobe it of its beauty; and all this fair property seemed more exclusively and inalienably their own, because of its descent through many forefathers, each of whom had added an improvement or a charm, and thus transmitted it with a stronger stamp of rightful possession to his heir.  And is it possible, after all, that there may be a flaw in the title-deeds?  Is, or is not, the system wrong that gives one married pair so immense a superfluity of luxurious home, and shuts out a million others from any home whatever?  One day or another, safe as they deem themselves, and safe as the hereditary temper of the people really tends to make them, the gentlemen of England will be compelled to face this question.

* * * * *

PAUL BLECKER.

PART III.

[Conclusion.]

“Skin cool, damp.  Pha! pha!  I thought that camphor and morphine last night would cure you.  Always good for sudden attacks.”

The little woman’s stumpy white fingers were very motherly, touching Grey’s forehead.

“I promised Doctor Blecker you would see him in half an hour.”

“It is not best,” the girl said, standing up, leaning against the mantel-shelf.

“It is best.  Yes.  You say you will not consent to the marriage:  are going with me to-night.  So, so.  I ask no questions.  No, child.  Hush!”—­with a certain dignity.  “I want no explanations.  Sarah Sheppard’s rough, maybe; but she keeps her own privacy, and regards that of others.  But you must see him.  He is your best friend, if nothing more.  A woman cannot be wrong, when she acts in that way from the inherent truth of things.  That was my mother’s rule.  In half an hour,”—­putting her forefinger on Grey’s temple, and pursing her mouth.  “Pulse low.  Sharp seven the train goes.  I’ll bring a bottle of nitre in my bag,”—­and she bustled out.