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himself a little on tiptoe, attained that summit of his hopes, the lips of his Dulcinea. Be it known in parenthesis, that Miriam was tall and thin.

"Happy's the wooing
That's not long a doing."

The young couple had settled all but the wedding-day, before Miriam left the mill, and as she was a person of dispatch, she lost no time in informing her mistress of her good fortune, and it was as good as a farce to see her receive the congratulations of the young people one after another, each of whom had a jeu d ésprit to try upon the bride elect. In a day or two afterwards, the miller came in his Sunday's best, to ask Lady Llewellen's consent in form, to his espousing her house-keeper, as he was pleased to call Mrs. Miriam. Not all the gravity of all the Puritans could have withstood his look, when, as a sort of ex

cuse for his conduct, he said that he wanted somebody to see to his house and take care of his property, which had occasioned him to fix upon Miriam, though inferior in rank to himself, because she was a steady, sensible woman, and had been brought up under Lady Llewellen's own eye. Lady Llewellen applauded his discretion, and begged to be one of the wedding party. The miller hemmed and hawed, and at last said that he "hoped no offence," but if Madam would'nt take it ill, he should like to be married the same day as Miss Clare; "and perhaps," he added, our miss may like to follow our example."

Lady Llewellen smiled and said she could have no objection, but she did not know when her daughter was going to be married.

"We will make ourselves agreeable to you, madam;" said the miller, "our time shall be yours."

"Very well, Mr. Jenkins," said Lady

Llewellen,

and I hope you will be as happy a benedict as you have been a bachelor. I can answer for you having made a very good and sensible choice, for Miriam knows well how to manage, and make the best of everything, and is an excellent temper."

"Glad to hear you say so, madam. Always thought so myself," said Mr. Jenkins, with a satisfied air.

CHAPTER XII.

So long as Guyon with her communed
Unto the ground she cast her modest eye,
And ever and anone with rosie red

The bashfull blood her snowy cheeks did die,
And her became as polish'd ivorie

Which cunning craftsman's hand hath overlaid
With fair vermillion or pure lastery.

Faerie Queen.

WHILST the miller was making his important communication to Herbert, Gwenthlean and Clare were laughing and talking merrily. The former was engaged in an elaborate piece of embroidery, intended as a wedding present for her sister, and any one who had seen her when she was employed

in preparations for her own marriage, would scarcely have believed in her identity. Her needle passed so rapidly to and fro, that the flowers seemed to grow under her fingers; whilst the beautiful smile of days gone by, once more animated her features. Clare had also a make-believe work-basket, full of all kinds of work, near her; but much as she had tried to persuade herself into a liking for needle-work, during her life of retirement, she had not succeeded. She was seated at her writingdesk, on which lay a jewell box, just received from the Countess of Hastings, and several unanswered letters. She took up

a splendid circlet of pearls,

intended for the head, and showed it to Gwenthlean.

"It is very beautiful," she said, "but it would suit you so much better than me :" and rising, she placed it on her sister's head. "Oh! how well you look! I wish you were going to wear it instead of me. You deserve so much more than I do, and yet I am the happy and favored one."

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