‘Yes. The clergyman of the parish is such a dear old man, and quite sympathetic. He thinks it is an elopement, and as he ran away with his own wife, who is twenty years younger than himself, he is sympathy itself!’ ‘Did he recognise my name, when you mentioned it?’
‘Not a bit,’ answered Alma, laughing. ‘He lives too far out of the world to know anything or anybody, and, as I told you, he is eighty years of age. I really think he believes that Queen Victoria is still an unmarried lady, and he talks about Bonaparte just as if it were sixty years ago.’
‘Alma!’
‘Yes, Ambrose!’
‘You don’t mind this secret marriage?’
‘Not at all—since it is your wish.’
‘I think it is better to keep the affair private, at least for a little time. You know how I hate publicity, in a matter so sacred; and since we are all in all to each other——’
He drew her still closer and kissed her again. As he did so, he was conscious of a curious sound as of suppressed laughter, and, glancing up, he saw the eyes of the weird boy intently regarding him.
‘Well, what is it?’ cried Bradley, impatiently, while Alma shrank away blushing crimson.
The eyes of the weird boy did not droop, nor was he at all abashed. Still indulging in an internal chuckle, like the suppressed croak of a young raven, he pulled his horses up, and pointed with his whip towards the distant country prospect.