"Yer needn't think they're got up ter kill ter please yous.

It's only ter give their clobber an airin', an' keep out the moths." When it was time to set out for the church, the five were quite at their ease, grinning and giggling at the familiar jokes on marriage, broad as a barn door, dating from the Flood.

Mrs Yabsley toiled in the rear of the bridal procession, fighting for wind on account of the hill.

She kept her fist shut on the two half-dollars for the parson; the wedding ring, jammed on the first joint of her little finger for safety, gave her an atrocious pain.

At length they reached Cleveland street, and halted opposite the church.
The square tower of Trinity Church threw its massive outline against the faint glow of the city lights, keeping watch and ward over the church, that had grown grey in the service of God, like a fortress of the Lord planted on hostile ground.