It was a fine bright Sunday as ever was seen, just at the beginnin' o' hay harvest.

Mr.Tarbett preached that day, and Mr.
Gilfil sat i' the pew with his wife.

I think I see him now, a-leading her up the aisle, an' her head not reachin' much above his elber: a little pale woman, with eyes as black as sloes, an' yet lookin' blank-like, as if she see'd nothing with 'em.' 'I warrant she had her weddin' clothes on ?' said Mr.Hackit.
'Nothin' partikler smart--on'y a white hat tied down under her chin, an' a white Indy muslin gown.

But you don't know what Mr.Gilfil was in those times.

He was fine an' altered before you come into the parish.