"The Prescription is not there, Sophy."
"Where is it?"
"Here, my dear."
I brought her young husband in, and I put her hand in his, and my only
farther words to both of them were these: "Doctor Marigold's last
Prescription. To be taken for life." After which I bolted.
When the wedding come off, I mounted a coat (blue, and bright buttons),
for the first and last time in all my days, and I give Sophy away with my
own hand. There were only us three and the gentleman who had had charge
of her for those two years. I give the wedding dinner of four in the
Library Cart. Pigeon-pie, a leg of pickled pork, a pair of fowls, and
suitable garden stuff. The best of drinks. I give them a speech, and
the gentleman give us a speech, and all our jokes told, and the whole
went off like a sky-rocket. In the course of the entertainment I
explained to Sophy that I should keep the Library Cart as my living-cart
when not upon the road, and that I should keep all her books for her just
as they stood, till she come back to claim them. So she went to China
with her young husband, and it was a parting sorrowful and heavy, and I
got the boy I had another service; and so as of old, when my child and
wife were gone, I went plodding along alone, with my whip over my
shoulder, at the old horse's head.
Sophy wrote me many letters, and I wrote her many letters.
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