After some account of the marriage and of bride and groom, the story went on as follows:—
"At midnight the charivari was heard—a noisy beating of pans and pots in the door-yard of the unhappy groom, who flung sticks of wood from the window, and who finally dispersed the crowd with an old shotgun. Bright and early next day came the milkman—a veteran of the war of 1812—who, agreeably with his custom, sounded the call of boots and saddles on his battered bugle at Brown's door. But none came to open it. The noon hour passed with no sign of life in the old house.
"'Suthin' hes happened over there,' said his nearest neighbour, peering out of the window. 'Mebbe they've fit an' disabled each other.'
"'You'd better go an' rap on the door,' said his wife.
"He started, halting at his gate and looking over at the house of mystery. While he stood there, the door of the money-lender opened a little, and a head came out beckoning for help. He hurried to the door, that swung open as he came near it.
"'Heavens!' said he, 'What is the matter?'
"Brown stood behind the door, in a gown of figured calico, his feet bare, his shock of gray hair dishevelled. The gown was a poor fit, stopping just below the knees.
"'That woman!' he gasped, sinking into a chair and making an angry gesture with his fist. 'That woman has got every pair o' breeches in the house.'
"His wife appeared in the rusty, familiar garments of the money-lender.
"'He tried to humble me this morning,' said she, 'an' I humbled him. He began to order me around, an' I told him I wouldn't hev it. "Then," says he, "you better put on the breeches an' I'll put on the dress." "Very well," says I, and grabbed the breeches, an' give him the dress. I know ye, Brown; ye'll never abuse me.'