"It's common-like, though," Lizzī replied; "but I'd be married by a squire rather than put it off."
"You will have to do it then," Gill said, in a tone that did not conceal his chagrin at having to be wedded by a Justice of the Peace.
While Squire Harker was gone for his books, pen, ink, and paper, which were concealed in a thorn-bush near the church, Lizzī sat silent in a pew and wondered if the angels would make merry over a church-wedding conducted by a squire.
When Squire Harker thought he had allowed himself time enough to get to his office and back, he tapped at the church door. Gill shaded the candles and called to him to enter. He closed the door and made a hat-peg of the key, the black slouch effectually preventing any peeping through the keyhole.
He took a position behind the table on which he had placed the candles, and Gill and Lizzī stood before it. The candles threw their weird shadows on the walls and ceiling of the low lecture-room. The shadows deepened and faded, advanced and retreated, nodded and bowed in the uncertain light from the candles which seemed to struggle against their own consumption, yet were never quite able to master the eating fire that at intervals flashed greedily.
The Squire took up the church book and began to read the ceremony, but Lizzī stopped him.
"Not the preacher's way by a squire; take your own book."
So he opened a volume of legal forms and asked the question, "Are both parties of contracting age?"
Gill responded "Yes," and Lizzī said she was old enough to know her own mind.
The shadows stood still.