The pew-opener, an ancient dame, with a "front" slipping down nearly to her nose, now made her appearance, and the party went into the church.
The clerk assisted the clergyman into his surplice, and got out the register, and Blair, pressing Margaret's hand, walked up to the altar.
Austin Ambrose paused a moment before accompanying, and whispered to Margaret:
"You will take care not to address either of us by name?"
She made a motion of assent, and, pale and trembling, followed with the pew-opener and clerk.
The service began. It was scarcely audible; at times the old clergyman was taken with a cough that threatened to shake him, and the book he held, and, indeed, the church itself, into pieces, but he struggled through it; and in a few minutes Margaret found herself leaning upon Blair's arm, and heard him murmur—with what intensity of love!—"My wife!"
"Now, if you'll sign the book," said the clerk. "Lemme see; what is the name?" and he peered at the license.
"Here is the name!" said Austin Ambrose. "It is rather a long one, and I've written it down," and he handed him a slip of paper.
Blair, to whom the remainder of the formalities was caviare, was bending over Margaret at a little distance, and buttoning her gloves.