hour and a quarter?” he asked his sister, mournfully.  “And there would be four journeys, going and coming,—­four separate journeys!” And these would be irrespective of numerous carriages and cabs.  It was absolutely impossible that he should be present in the flesh on that happy day at Cheltenham.  He was left at home for three months,—­July, August, and September,—­in which to buy the furniture; which, however, was at last procured by Mr. Annesley.

The marriage, as far as the wedding was concerned, was not nearly as good fun as that of Joe and Molly.  There was no Mr. Crabtree there, and no Miss Thoroughbung.  And Mrs. Mountjoy, though she meant to do it all as well as it could be done, was still joyous only with bated joy.  Some tinge of melancholy still clung to her.  She had for so many years thought of her nephew as the husband destined for her girl, that she could not be as yet demonstrative in her appreciation of Harry Annesley.  “I have no doubt we shall come to be true friends, Mr. Annesley,” she had said to him.

“Don’t call me Mr. Annesley.”

“No, I won’t, when you come back again and I am used to you.  But at present there—­there is a something—­”

“A regret, perhaps?”

“Well, not quite a regret.  I am an old-fashioned person, and I can’t change my manners all at once.  You know what it was that I used to hope.”

“Oh yes.  But Florence was very stupid, and would have a different opinion.”

“Of course I am happy now.  Her happiness is all the world to me.  And things have undergone a change.”

“That’s true.  Mr. Prosper has made over the marrying business to me, and I mean to go through it like a man.  Only you must call me Harry.”  This she promised to do, and did, in the seclusion of her room, give him a kiss.  But still her joy was not loud, and the hilarity of her guests was moderated.  Mr. Armstrong did his best, and the bride’s maid’s dresses were pretty,—­which is all that is required of a bride’s maid.  Then at last the father’s carriage came, and they were carried away to Gloucester, where they were committed to the untender, commonplace, but much more comfortable mercies of the railway-carriage.  There we will part with them, and encounter them again but for a few moments as, after a long day’s ramble, they made their way back to a solitary but comfortable hotel among the Bernese Alps.  Florence was on a pony, which Harry had insisted on hiring for her, though Florence had declared herself able to walk the whole way.  It had been very hot, and she was probably glad of the pony.  They both had alpenstocks in their hands, and on the pommel of her saddle hung the light jacket with which he had started, and which had not been so light but that he had been glad to ease himself of the weight.  The guide was lagging behind, and they two were close together.  “Well, old girl!” he said, “and now what do you think of it all?”

“I’m not so very much older than I was when you took me, pet.”