Need it be told how, on the following morning, as soon after breakfast as convenient, our artist—and now rich land-proprietor—beckoned to our host of the "Headless Lady," and with trembling lips and palpitating heart seized him by the arm, and walked with him for a good pace down the long, straight road leading up to the door of the inn? Or how the members of the club, who happened to be looking through the diamond-shaped panes of the old-fashioned bow window in that direction, remarked one to the other how mighty intimate our hero had suddenly become with his landlord, and their wonderments as to what he could find to talk to him about so confidentially?

Suddenly our host was observed to start, slap his thigh, then, with a hand upon each bent knee, he peers steadily into the face of his interlocutor, who is placing a hand upon his shoulder. Our host, now changing his position, extends a broad, fleshy palm towards his customer, which our artist clasps in his long, slender fingers with a more than usual hearty shake.

"Why, if they are not patting each other on the back, and laughing," exclaimed Parnassus. "What can be up?"

"Well, that's queer," observed the Professor. "Um—m—m—m?"

Whilst this dumb show was being enacted Dame Hearty entered her daughter's bedroom to announce to her that she had Dr. Bleedem's full permission to get up and dress herself; which permission, we may easily guess, was promptly taken advantage of. So jumping suddenly out of bed with the agility of youth, she quickly set about her toilet and ablutions.

"There is one thing," began her parent, "I wish to speak to you about."

"Yes, mother," responded Helen, absently, brushing out her curls before the glass with unusual despatch, and without turning towards her parent.

"Nay, hear me, girl," continued Dame Hearty; "it is seriously I would speak."

"Say on, then, madam; I am listening."

"I am aware—ahem!—I have long taken note," continued her mother, "of a growing intimacy—a friendship, I may say, and perhaps something more—between you and this Mr. McGuilp, our guest. I know that he has done us all a great service—a service that none of us can ever forget, and you in particular, since he saved your life. It is therefore only natural and proper that you should feel grateful towards him, and regard him in the light of a friend, and as a friend, I hope, we shall ever esteem him; but listen, now, my girl, to what I say. A too intimate friendship between a young couple, out of different stations in life, such as in the case of yourself, who are only the daughter of a country inn-keeper, and a gentleman born and educated like Mr. McGuilp, who is, besides, enormously rich, having inherited all his uncle's fortune and estates, and consequently moves in the very best society. Such intimacies are dangerous, and may lead on to trouble before you are aware."

"How, mother?"

"Bless the child!" answered her mother, impatiently, "must I tell you everything? Must I make you as wise as myself? No; there are things I can't discuss with you. What I want of you is to be patient, and obey."

"You—all of you—treat me like a child," broke in Helen, reproachfully.

"And so you are," retorted her mother; "therefore take advice. The feeling that the world calls love—love, I say, that speaks not of marriage is denounced as sin by the laws of God and man."

"Well, that's strange," mused Helen. "Then, one may not love a friend, a parent, a child, without marrying them?"

"I have no time to quibble," replied her mother, with some asperity, "but would simply remark that whatever your feelings may be towards Mr. McGuilp, or his towards you, nothing but harm and unhappiness can be the lot of you both—without marriage. Now, you can't well expect a rich gentleman like Mr. McGuilp to displease all his friends by marrying a penniless girl like yourself—country bred, without education, who knows nothing of the world and society, when he could marry some high-born lady out of his own class—some rich heiress, educated and accomplished, who would grace the society to which he belongs. He might be a great man in the county, and enter Parliament, with such a wife, while you would only drag him down to your level."

Helen had already hidden her face in her hands, and her bare shoulders heaved convulsively, while the hot tears trickled through her fingers.

"Cease, mother! Oh! cease, in pity!" she cried. "I cannot bear it."

Her anguish would have wrung the heart of a stone, and her parent being a really tender-hearted woman, deeply sympathised with her daughter, though she felt it her duty to be firm, "For what could it all end in?" she argued.

At this juncture, the voice of our host was heard at the bottom of the staircase calling out, "Molly, my dear! Mr. McGuilp wants to speak to you."

"In one moment, Jack," answered his spouse. Then to her daughter, "Dry your eyes, my girl. Bathe your face and follow me. Mr. McGuilp doubtless wants to see you. You have much to thank him for, and do it with grace, but mind what I have said."

With this parting admonition she left the room and hurried downstairs, whilst Helen deftly finished her toilet, and with one last look at the glass to ascertain that her eyes bore no traces of weeping, she was preparing to descend the stairs, when her attention was attracted by sounds from below that she was at a loss to account for. There was a jumble of human voices, but above them all was the voice of her mother, now screaming, now half laughing and half crying, whilst that of Dr. Bleedem was heard giving orders to her father, and all seemed bustle and confusion. Dame Hearty was in hysterics.

"And you really do mean it, Mr. McGuilp?" asked, in a sweet voice, a bright-faced country girl of eighteen summers of a slim young man in the garb of a gentleman, who followed her through the narrow mossy pathway of a wood adjacent to the inn at the cross roads.

"Mean it, my angel! Why, of course I do, and feel proud at the very thought of you being all my own. Only don't call me any more 'Mr. McGuilp,' or 'Sir.' It hurts my feelings. Call me 'Van'—just 'Van' as my friends and relatives have ever called me."

"Van, let it be then," quoth the maiden, "dear Van, my own sweet love for ever and ever! Oh! Van, you have made me so happy! And my parents, how you must have surprised them when you told them! Poor mother! No wonder she went into highstrikes!"

"Hysterics," corrected her lover.

"Well, that's what they call them here," answered the girl; "but you will correct me every time I make a mistake, won't you Van?"

"With pleasure, dearest," replied her suitor.

"And nothing can ever come between us now? Nothing can part us?"

"Nothing but death," was the reply.

A shade of sadness passed momentarily over the girl's features as she asked, "Must it all end with that?"

"Death ends everything," replied the young man: "that is to say, everything earthly."

"Then is there no love beyond the grave?" asked Helen.

"Oh! let us hope so," responded our artist. "I, for one, have the very strongest persuasion that there is. Love such as ours is not merely of earth."

"Dear, dear Van!" cried the maiden, in ecstasy, "I will believe all you tell me. I know nothing, but I feel you are right. Yes, we shall still continue to love even beyond the grave. Oh! Van, how have I deserved all this happiness?"

"Your sweetness, your goodness, your beauty, your love, amply counterpoise anything I can give you, my angel," said her lover.

"How kind you are to talk like that Van! How you must love me to go against the wishes of your friends and leave everything and everybody for me!" exclaimed the girl. Then added, "You are quite sure that you won't be ashamed of me before all the grand people you will meet? That you will be able to pardon any little slip of the tongue, my country manners, and everything else?"

"Everything, everything, dear. Besides, your education will begin from to-day. You will improve yourself in the arts of reading and writing. Learn grammar, history, geography, and other things. I will have you well taught at once, whilst I am away in town to make preparations for our wedding. I must go about the licence, and through other formalities; buy the wedding-ring; your dress—for, of course, as my wife, you must now dress as beseems a lady, and leave off this simple garb; and yet it seems a pity, for I have always known you thus. Still, for the sake of public opinion—to avoid misunderstanding——"

"I care nothing about all that," broke in Helen.

"No, my darling; not yet. You do not understand. But in time you will find that you have to."

"Well, I will do anything to please you, Van."

"My own darling!" said her lover, encircling his arm around her waist.

Well, my readers, and if their lips did meet; what of it? It is a way that lips have under the circumstances.

"And now, gentlemen, and members of the Wonder Club, let me introduce you to the future Mrs. Vandyke McGuilp," said our artist, on his return from his walk, as he entered the club room, leading his fiancÉe by the hand.

Taken completely by surprise, each member rose from his chair, bowed, smiled, and offered his congratulations. Mr. Oldstone was particularly moist on this occasion.

"Oh! my dear boy, how I congratulate you; and you too, my pretty child! Bless you, my children, both!"

Then he took out his handkerchief and mopped his eyes.

"Dear me, what an old fool I am!" he muttered, in parenthesis.

Chairs were immediately placed for the engaged couple, amid boisterous cheering and banter from all the members of the club at once, whilst the bride elect laughed, blushed, and looked very happy. The father and mother of the bride next entered, and joined in the general hubbub.

Of course, this was too great an event not to be celebrated with all due honours. Therefore Mr. Oldstone proposed that they should all meet once again that evening round the steaming punch-bowl; Helen and her parents being also of the company.

"Just to drink to the health of the bride elect," explained Mr. Oldstone with an appealing look towards Dr. Bleedem. And it was so.

That the bride's health was drunk that evening with a "Hip, hip, hurrah!" goes without saying. How Mr. McGuilp started on the morrow for town on business connected with his approaching marriage; his return; his sojourn at the "Headless Lady" until the grand event came off; how he occupied his spare time partly in painting a portrait of his friend Mr. Oldstone, which was followed in due time by portraits of his future father and mother-in-law, and in imparting instruction to his fair bride; likewise, how, when unavoidably absent on business, Mr. Oldstone would enact the rÔle of instructor to the fair bride of his protÉgÉ, so that no time should be lost in fitting her for her exalted station; how Helen improved daily in intelligence and knowledge under such careful tuition, are matters of history.

All unpleasant experiences of the past had been forgotten in the joy attending the great approaching event.

Coffins had been made for the bodies of the two malefactors. The corpse of Lord Scampford had been placed in his lordship's carriage and driven by his coachman (whose shoulder blade was now quite well), and accompanied by his footman to London, where it was consigned to the family vault of the Scampfords, while that of his partner in crime filled a nameless grave in a corner of the old churchyard at Littleboro'.

Some procrastination and unexpected delays would occur, however, in spite of all our hero could do to hurry on the event, for we know that "the course of true love never did run smooth," but at length the happy day arrived. How merrily pealed the bells from the ruined tower of the picturesque old parish church of Littleboro' on that sunny morn! How gay the peasantry looked in their holiday attire! Proud, indeed, were our host and hostess as a splendid equipage with coachman and footman, each adorned with a huge nosegay, drove up to the door of the "Headless Lady" to convey the fair bride, who was attired in the most approved fashion of the period, and accompanied by her father and mother, both clad in gala, to the church.

How the yokels did gape as they recognised in the magnificently attired bride poor Nell Hearty, maid of the inn at the cross roads, whom they had seen full oft to feed the pigs, milk the cows, scrub the steps, wash and hang out the clothes, and who had served them with many a pint of her father's home brewed ale. It was a thing not well understood—had no right to be, doubtless they thought. The little church was crammed. Needless to say that every member of the Wonder Club was present, and, lo, here comes the vicar of Littleboro', that aged and somewhat infirm cleric of benevolent aspect, and all the aristocracy of the place.

The service begins. Mr. Parnassus has been chosen as best man, and has composed an ode for the occasion. Mr. Oldstone has begged the honour of giving away the bride, which duty he performs with great dignity. A dead silence reigns as the bridegroom places the ring on the chubby finger of his bride. The benediction is given, the register is signed, et c'est une affaire fini. The bridal pair march out of church to the joyous strains of the organ, treading beneath their feet along the aisle the flowers that friendly rustics have strewn across their path. Bride and bridegroom then step into their carriage and drive back to the house of the bride, where a sumptuous wedding breakfast awaits them. Nor were the wedding presents wanting. The members of the club had subscribed, and presented the pair with a handsome punch-bowl and silver ladle with the usual golden guinea inlaid in the scoop. The parents of the bride presented their daughter with a handsome piece of carved oak furniture called a "brideswain," dating back as far as the commonwealth, which contained linen, goblets, and other useful articles.

The old broadbacked farmer, the bride's godfather, who was present, and whom our readers will recollect was the innocent cause of the disasters that followed, in that, in his simplicity, he had put Lord Scampford's bully into possession of the secret of Helen's address, that day at the Royal Academy; well, the bride's godfather and his spouse between them presented the couple with a metal dish and cover, besides a case containing a carving knife, fork, and steel. The bride's aunt, whom we have mentioned as an invalid, sent an expensive old-fashioned china tea service and sundry chimney ornaments, while her friends in humbler circumstances each contributed their little mite.

The breakfast went off merrily. The speeches and the toasts, who shall describe?

At length the hour of parting arrived. The carriage drove up, and the bridal pair entered amid showers of rice and old slippers. Our hero and heroine were about to set out on a continental tour for their honeymoon, and intended visiting the eternal city.

Perhaps the most touching incident of all occurred at the last moment, just as the happy pair were entering their carriage.

Mr. Oldstone, who had been very moist on the occasion, drew off his antique ring, of which we have heard so much, from his forefinger and placed it on that of his protÉgÉ, saying with much emotion: "Take it, my son; take it with an old man's blessing. Preserve it as an heirloom, for I shall never wear it more."

"Poor old man!" said our artist with some emotion, when they had left the home of the bride a mile behind. "To think that he should make me this valuable present, and that I hadn't time to thank him at the last. I must write to him on the very first opportunity. Why, Helen, can you guess the value of this gem? I would sooner possess this ring than all the money he has in the world. I never thought he would give it away to anyone during his lifetime. Did you ever hear the legend attached to it?"

"Well, yes; I think I was present when Mr. Oldstone told his story," said Helen; "but I am sure I don't recollect anything about it now. You shall tell it to me over again some other time, darling."

"With pleasure, dearest," replied her husband. "It is a long story, and at present we have so many other things to think of, haven't we, love?"

"Yes, dear," was the reply.

"And you think you will continue to love me as much as you did at first, darling?" demanded the newly married man of his young wife.

"Oh! Van; how can you ask such a question?" exclaimed the bride. "Why, I love you more and more every minute."

"Then give hubby a pretty kiss," was the rejoinder.

Two pouting rosebuds were thrust upwards into the husband's face, upon which he settled like a bee upon a flower extracting nectar and ambrosia; and thus we will leave them.