“Yes, Miss, which Old Marse as’ed if you was ready, and sent me up to ’quire.”

“I can be ready soon, Matty. But—has any one else come?”

“No, Miss.”

“Not the minister?”

“The which, Miss?”

“The Reverend Doctor Barbar.”

“No, Miss.”

“Then I don’t see the use of my disturbing myself yet awhile. There can be no marriage without a minister,” said the bride elect, with something very much like a sigh of relief.

“You may go, Matilda,” she added to the girl, who still lingered at the door.

Matty vanished, and Miss Lyon resigned herself to her reverie.