On we went, past rush and sedge and weeping willow, by roaring weir and cavernous lock, into the shadow of grim stone bridges and out again into the sunshine, past shady woods and green uplands, until at length we "cast anchor" before a flight of steps leading up to a particularly worn stone gateway surmounted by a crumbling stone cross.
"Why," exclaimed the Imp, staring, "this is a church!"
"Imp," I nodded, "I believe it is."
"But to-day isn't Sunday, you know," he remonstrated, seeing it was our intention to land.
"Never mind that, Imp; 'the better the deed, the better the day, you know.'"
On we went, Dorothy and the Imp in front, while Lisbeth and I brought up the rear, and she slipped her hand into mine. In the porch we came upon an aged woman busy with a broom and a very large duster, who, catching sight of us, dropped first the duster and then the broom, and stood staring in open-mouthed astonishment.
And there, in the dim old church, with the morning sun making a glory of the window above our heads, and with the birds for our choristers, the vows were exchanged and the blessing pronounced that gave Lisbeth and her future into my keeping; yet I think we were both conscious of those two small figures in the gloom of the great pew behind, who stared in round-eyed wonderment.
The register duly signed, and all formalities over and done, we go out into the sunshine; and once more the aged woman, richer now by half a crown, is reduced to mute astonishment, so that speech is beyond her, when the Imp, lifting his feathered cap, politely wishes her "good morning."
Once more aboard the Joyful Hope, there ensued an awkward pause, during which Lisbeth looked at the children and I at her.
"We must take them back home," she said at last.