"My oath, yer a sight fer sore eyes, yous are!" he cried. "I'm glad yer
don't know 'ow giddy yer look, else us blokes wouldn't 'ave a chance,
would we, Chook?"

The girls bridled with pleasure at the rude compliments, pretending not
to hear them, feeling very desirable and womanly in their finery.

"Dickon ter you," said Mrs Yabsley. "Yer needn't think they're got up
ter kill ter please yous. It's only ter give their clobber an airin',
an' keep out the moths."

When it was time to set out for the church, the five were quite at their
ease, grinning and giggling at the familiar jokes on marriage, broad as a
barn door, dating from the Flood. Mrs Yabsley toiled in the rear of the
bridal procession, fighting for wind on account of the hill. She kept her
fist shut on the two half-dollars for the parson; the wedding ring, jammed
on the first joint of her little finger for safety, gave her an atrocious
pain. At length they reached Cleveland street, and halted opposite
the church.

The square tower of Trinity Church threw its massive outline against the
faint glow of the city lights, keeping watch and ward over the church,
that had grown grey in the service of God, like a fortress of the Lord
planted on hostile ground. And they stood together, the grim tower and
the grey church, for a symbol of immemorial things--a stronghold and
a refuge.

The wedding party walked into the churchyard on tiptoe as if they were
trespassers. Then, unable to find the door in the dark, they walked