“Fly,” said Mr. Dill, stretching forward his bald head.  “It must be the one I ordered.  Then I’ll wish you good-day, Miss Corny.”

“Fly for you?” cried Miss corny.  “Have you got the gout, that you could not walk to St. Jude’s on foot?”

“I am not going to the church yet; I am going on to the Grove, Miss Corny.  I thought it would look more proper to have a fly ma’am; more respectful.”

“Not a doubt but you need it in that trim,” retorted she.  “Why didn’t you put on pumps and silk stockings with pink clocks?”

He was glad to bow himself out, she kept on so.  But he thought he would do it with a pleasant remark, to show her he bore no ill-will.  “Just look at the crowds pouring down, Miss Corny; the church will be as full as it can cram.”

“I dare say it will,” retorted she.  “One fool makes many.”

“I fear Miss Cornelia does not like this marriage, any more than she did the last,” quoth Mr. Dill to himself as he stepped into his fly.  “Such a sensible woman as she is in other things, to be so bitter against Mr. Archibald because he marries!  It’s not like her.  I wonder,” he added, his thoughts changing, “whether I do look foolish in this shirt?  I’m sure I never thought of decking myself out to appear young—­as Miss Corny said—­I only wished to testify respect to Mr. Archibald and Miss Barbara; nothing else would have made me give five-and-twenty shillings for it.  Perhaps it’s not etiquette—­or whatever they call it—­to wear them in the morning, Miss Corny ought to know; and there certainly must be something wrong about it, by the way it put her up.  Well, it can’t be helped now; it must go; there’s no time to return home now to change it.”

St. Jude’s Church was in a cram; all the world and his wife had flocked into it.  Those who could not get in, took up their station in the churchyard and in the road.

Well, it was a goodly show.  Ladies and gentlemen as smart as fine feathers could make them.  Mr. Carlyle was one of the first to enter the church, self-possessed and calm, the very sense of a gentleman.  Oh, but he was noble to look upon; though when was he otherwise?  Mr. and Mrs. Clithero were there, Anne Hare, that was; a surprise for some of the gazers, who had not known they were expected at the wedding.  Gentle, delicate Mrs. Hare walked up the church leaning on the arm of Sir John Dobede, a paler shade than usual on her sweet, sad face.  “She’s thinking of her wretched, ill-doing son,” quoth the gossips, one to another.  But who comes in now, with an air as if the whole church belonged to him?  An imposing, pompous man, stern and grim, in a new flaxen wig, and a white rose in his buttonhole.  It is Mr. Justice Hare, and he leads in one, whom folks jump upon seats to get a look at.

Very lovely was Barbara, in her soft white silk robes and her floating veil.  Her cheeks, now blushing rosy red, now pale as the veil that shaded them, betrayed how intense was her emotion.  The bridesmaids came after her with jaunty steps, vain in their important office—­Louisa Dobede, Augusta and Kate Herbert, and Mary Pinner.