They stood in silence for a few moments. Then turning with their arms around each other, they saw Emily and Wentworth sitting together in deep abstraction.
“Well, Richard and Emily, what are you thinking of?” Muriel playfully demanded.
“I was thinking,” returned Wentworth more gravely than was usual with him, “that is before your singing, Muriel, lifted me out of my mind, as it always does—I was thinking what a man Mr. Parker is. How great and noble—how beautiful were his words and manner. Ah, that was a true marriage service!”
“And so was I,” cried Emily, who had been weeping a little. “I was thinking the same thing. I shall never hear our own minister with comfort again.”
“Oh, flower of Episcopalians, are you turning Parkerite?” gaily exclaimed Muriel.
“I declare I believe I am,” sighed Emily, so dolefully that Wentworth began to laugh, and she herself followed his example.
“Come,” cried Wentworth, starting to his feet, “this won’t do. Here are John and Muriel married. Do you realize that fact, Emily?”
“Yes, I do,” she answered, bounding up, and rushing over to the lovers to pour out the joy of her heart upon them.
Mrs. Eastman and Wentworth followed, and in a moment the room rang with gay talk and frolic hilarity.