told him; he knew she loved him now--the accent on the now.

I glanced around me. We were the usual crowd of mixed humanity--
tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, with our cousins, and our
sisters, and our wives. So many of our eyes were wet with tears.
Miss Butcher could hardly repress her sobs. Young Mr. Tinker, his
face hidden behind his programme, pretended to be blowing his nose.
Mrs. Apothecary's large bosom heaved with heartfelt sighs. The
retired Colonel sniffed audibly. Sadness rested on our souls. It
might have been so different but for those foolish, hasty words!
There need have been no funeral. Instead, the church might have been
decked with bridal flowers. How sweet she would have looked beneath
her orange wreath! How proudly, gladly, he might have responded "I
will," take her for his wedded wife, to have and to hold from this
day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness
and in health, to love and to cherish, till death did them part. And
thereto he might have plighted his troth.

In the silence which reigned after the applause had subsided the
beautiful words of the Marriage Service seemed to be stealing through
the room: that they might ever remain in perfect love and peace
together. Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine. Thy children like
the olive branches round about thy table. Lo! thus shall a man be
blessed. So shall men love their wives as their own bodies, and be
not bitter against them, giving honour unto them as unto the weaker
vessel. Let the wife see that she reverence her husband, wearing the
ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.

[Love and the Satyr.]