The Broad Highway

"Let it!" said I.

"And the bacon--the bacon will burn--let me go, and--oh, Peter!"

So, in due time, we sat down to our solitary wedding breakfast;

and there were no eyes to speculate upon the bride's beauty, to

note her changing color, or the glory of her eyes; and no healths

were proposed or toasts drunk, nor any speeches spoken--except,

perhaps by my good friend--the brook outside, who, of course,

understood the situation, and babbled tolerantly of us to the

listening trees, like the grim old philosopher he was.

In this solitude we were surely closer together and belonged more

fully to each other, for all her looks and thoughts were mine, as

mine were hers.

And, as we ate, sometimes talking and sometimes laughing (though

rarely; one seldom laughs in the wilderness), our hands would

stray to meet each other across the table, and eye would answer

eye, while, in the silence, the brook would lift its voice to

chuckle throaty chuckles and outlandish witticisms, such as could

only be expected from an old reprobate who had grown so in years,

and had seen so very much of life. At such times Charmian's

cheeks would flush and her lashes droop--as though (indeed) she

were versed in the language of brooks.

So the golden hours slipped by, the sun crept westward, and

evening stole upon us.

"This is a very rough place for you," said I, and sighed.

We were sitting on the bench before the door, and Charmian had

laid her folded hands upon my shoulder, and her chin upon her

hands. And now she echoed my sigh, but answered without

stirring: "It is the dearest place in all the world."

"And very lonely!" I pursued.

"I shall be busy all day long, Peter, and you always reach home

as evening falls, and then--then--oh! I sha'n't be lonely."

"But I am such a gloomy fellow at the best of times, and very

clumsy, Charmian, and something of a failure."

"And--my husband."

"Peter!--Peter!--oh, Peter!" I started, and rose to my feet.

"Peter!--oh, Peter!" called the voice again, seemingly from the

road, and now I thought it sounded familiar.

Charmian stole her arms aboat my neck.

"I think it is Simon," said I uneasily; "what can have brought

him? And he will never venture down into the Hollow on account

of the ghost; I must go and see what he wants."

"Yes, Peter," she murmured, but the clasp of her arms tightened.