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LEARNED bishop has declared that the night before men and women are married should be spent in solitude, and devoted to prayer, repentance, and meditation; but a bishop may be very learned, and yet deficient in common sense. Miss Adelaide Dorr, who was to be married to-morrow to Mr. Arthur Gooch, had several sisters, two brothers, and the usual number of parents. With all these around her, popping in and out, asking questions, making remarks, laughing, crying, teasing, and kissing, and trying on things, you may imagine the state she was in. Arthur had put in an appearance, but he had gone away early, he had so much to do to complete his arrangements for to-morrow. There was, of course, a tender leave-taking in the passage, from which Adelaide came in rather quieter than usual, but she was not allowed to be quiet long. The entire house was in a flutter of excitement, and had the charming girl expressed a desire for solitude, for the purpose of following the learned bishop's advice, it would instantly have been feared that the prospect of approaching bliss had turned her head. She had no wish for solitude, and as to her having anything to repent, the idea was monstrous and absurd. There is little doubt that before she fell asleep on this important night in her young life she would breathe a prayer, but it would not be exactly such a prayer as the bishop had in view. And it is true she thought a great deal of Arthur; indeed, she thought of little else—a statement, perhaps, which my female readers will dispute when they take into consideration the wedding dress and the trousseau. All I can advance in proof of my assertion is that Adelaide was very much in love, and that there are circumstances—rare, I grant—in which dress does not occupy the first place in a woman's mind.

Neither did Arthur Gooch, who was as much in love as Adelaide, spend the last night of his bachelor existence in solitude and repentance. When he left Adelaide, he jumped into a hansom, and was driven to his chambers, where he expected to find a letter of pressing importance. He was not a man of fortune; he had good prospects, which were almost certain of realisation, and he had a little investment or two which paid him fair interest, and which could not, without loss, be turned immediately into cash. Now, the expenses of the coming wedding, and the furnishing and decoration of a house he had taken on lease, had made more serious inroads on his bank balance than he expected. Calculating the expenses of the honeymoon trip on the Continent, he found that he would run short of money, and in this dilemma he applied to a friend, Jack Stevens by name, for a loan of seventy-five pounds, which, with seventy-five of his own, which he had by him, would carry him and his pretty bride comfortably through. It was Jack Stevens' answer to his letter asking for the loan that he was expecting as he rode to his chambers with the image of Adelaide in his mind. What a dear girl she was! Was there ever such another? Was he not the happiest man in the world? And so on, and so on. Who is not familiar with a true lover's rhapsodies? Arthur was the sort of man who would have rivalled Orlando, had the positions been similar. He would have carved Adelaide's name on every tree.

Running up to his rooms, which were at the top of the house, he found half a dozen letters in his letter box, and among them one from his friend. It may be mentioned that Jack Stevens would have been his best man, had it not been that his presence was imperatively demanded in another part of the country on the day of the wedding. It was provoking, but it could not be helped. "Dear Arthur," said Jack Stevens in his letter, "certainly you can have the money, and more if you want it. As time is so short, I do not care risking it through the post, and a crossed cheque might not suit you. I have to catch an early train in the morning for Manchester, as you know, but I shall be at Lady Weston White's 'At Home' between eleven and twelve o'clock to-night. I saw a card for the crush stuck in your looking glass. Look me up there, and I will hand you the notes. I am awfully sorry to give you the trouble, but I can't come to you, and I am anxious to be certain that you are properly furnished before you