“At the end,” I said quietly.  “Send for Dr. Wilder.”

“But don’t you want to hear what a naughty girl—­”

“No, I want to hear nothing but ‘I, Elizabeth, take thee—­’”

“But I’ve been so very jealous, so suspicious and angry. Don’t you want to hear how bad I am?”

“No,” I said, closing the discussion after an old fashion of the Sloman cottage, “not until we two walk together to the Ledge to-morrow, my little wife and I.”

“Where’s a card—­your card, Charlie?  It would be more proper-like, as Mrs. Splinter would say, for you to write it.”

“I will try,” I said, taking out a card-case from my breast-pocket.  As I drew it forth my hand touched a package, Fanny Meyrick’s packet.  Shall I give it to her now?  I hesitated.  No, we’ll be married first in the calm faith that each has in the other to-day, needing no outward assurance or written word.

I penciled feebly, with a very shaky hand, my request that the doctor would call at Hiram Splinter’s, at his earliest convenience that evening, to perform the ceremony of marriage between his young friend, Bessie Stewart, and the subscriber.  Hiram’s eldest son, a youth of eight, was swinging on the gate under our window.  To him Bessie entrusted the card, with many injunctions to give it into no other hands than the doctor’s own.

In less time than we had anticipated, as we looked out of the window at the last pink glow of the sunset, the urchin reappeared, walking with great strides beside a spare little-figure, whom we recognized as the worthy doctor himself.

“Good gracious! he is in a hurry!” said Bessie, retiring hastily from the window; “and we have not said a word to Mrs. Splinter yet!”

We had expected the little doctor would wait below until the bridal-party should descend; but no, he came directly up stairs, and walked into the room without prelude.  He took Bessie in his arms with fatherly tenderness:  “Ah, you runaway! so you’ve come back at last?”

“Yes, doctor, and don’t you let go of her until you have married her fast to me.”

“Ahem!” said the doctor, clearing his throat, “that is just what I came to advise you about.  Hiram told me this afternoon of the chase you two had had, and of your illness this morning.  Now, as it is half over the village by this time that Bessie Stewart has been rescued from the Shaker village by a chivalrous young gentleman, and as everybody is wild with impatience to know the denoument, I want you to come down quietly to the church this evening and be married after evening service.”

“To please everybody?” I said, in no very pleasant humor.

“I think it will be wisest, best; and I am sure this discreetest of women,” still holding Bessie’s hand, “will agree with me.  You need not sit through the service.  Hiram can bring you down after it has begun; and you may sit in the vestry till the clerk calls you.  I’ll preach a short sermon to-night,” with a benignant chuckle.