The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. Young and old were dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—a wedding,—was about to take place. So she went to Ramage and came to the point almost at once. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. We remember it. And in its way it was very well.
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