something sitting down, and she had an aunt a seamstress.

The parson had been very greatly moved by what she had suffered on
his account, and he exclaimed, 'No, Sophy; lame or not lame, I cannot
let you go. You must never leave me again!'

He came close to her, and, though she could never exactly tell how it
happened, she became conscious of his lips upon her cheek. He then
asked her to marry him. Sophy did not exactly love him, but she had
a respect for him which almost amounted to veneration. Even if she
had wished to get away from him she hardly dared refuse a personage
so reverend and august in her eyes, and she assented forthwith to be
his wife.

Thus it happened that one fine morning, when the doors of the church
were naturally open for ventilation, and the singing birds fluttered
in and alighted on the tie-beams of the roof, there was a marriage-
service at the communion-rails, which hardly a soul knew of. The
parson and a neighbouring curate had entered at one door, and Sophy
at another, followed by two necessary persons, whereupon in a short
time there emerged a newly-made husband and wife.

Mr. Twycott knew perfectly well that he had committed social suicide
by this step, despite Sophy's spotless character, and he had taken
his measures accordingly. An exchange of livings had been arranged
with an acquaintance who was incumbent of a church in the south of
London, and as soon as possible the couple removed thither,
abandoning their pretty country home, with trees and shrubs and
glebe, for a narrow, dusty house in a long, straight street, and
their fine peal of bells for the wretchedest one-tongued clangour