IN one of the New England States, the little church-bell in Chester
village rung merrily in the clear morning air of a bright summer's
day. It was to call the people together, and they all obeyed its
summons--for who among the aged, middle-aged, or the young, did not
wish to fitness the marriage ceremonies of their favourite, Ellen
Lawton? Ere the tolling of the bell had ceased, the gray-haired man
was leaning on the finger-worn ball of his staff, in the corner of
his antiquated pew; the hale, healthy farmer came next; and then the
seat was filled with rosy-cheeked boys and girls, till the dignified
matron brought up the rear at the honourable head. The church became
quiet, eager eyes were fastened upon the door. Presently a tall form
entered, that of a handsome man, apparently about thirty years of
age, on whose arm was leaning, in sweet childlike smiling trust, the
young and loved Ellen Lawton, whose rose-cheek delicately shaded the
pale face, and who looked more beautiful in her angel loveliness
than ever before, even to the eyes of the humble villagers, to whom
she ever was but a "thing of beauty" and "a joy for ever." If thus
she looked to familiar eyes, how transcendently beautiful must she
have appeared to him, who this hour was to make her his own chosen
bride, the wife of his bosom, the pride, the priceless jewel of his
heart. They stood before the altar; he cast his dark eye upon
her--she raised hers, beaming in their blue depths, all full of love
and tenderness, and as they met his, the orange blossoms trembled
slightly in her auburn tresses, and the rose-tint, deepened on her
cheek. The voice of the man of God was heard, and soon Frederic
Gorton had promised to "love, cherish, and protect," and Ellen
Lawton to "love, honour, and obey." As it ever is, so it was
_there_, an interesting occasion--one that might well cause the eye
to fill with tears, the heart to hope, fearfully but earnestly hope,