‘You would like? And do you imagine that I will tell you?’ ‘Won’t you?’ ‘No, a thousand times. You will be—my wife. ‘I am Major Gerald Alderley of the West Kent Militia. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward.
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