CHAPTER XXX.
FINAL.
Gladly would the laird have had marriage at Dunstower, and have given away the beauteous bride himself: but there must still be two months more of decent mourning, and the general had long learned to sigh for the maligned delights of Burleigh Singleton.

So, Glenmuir could only get a promise of reappearance some fine summer or other: and, after another day's deer-stalking, which made the general repudiate telescopes from that day forth (the poor man's eyes had actually grown lobster-like with straining after antlers)--the travelling-carriage, and four lean kine from Inverary, whisked away the trio towards the South.
And now, in due time, were the Tamworths full of joy--congratulating, sympathizing, merrymaking; and the three young ladies behaved admirably in the capacity of pink and silver bridesmaids; while George proved equally kind in attending (as he called it) Charles's "execution," wherein he was "turned off;" and the admiral, G.C.B.was so hand-in-glove with the general, H.E.I.C.S., that I have reason to believe they must have sworn eternal friendship, after the manner of the modern Germans.
How beautiful our Emmy looked--I hate the broad Scotch Aamy--how bright her flashing eyes, and how fragrantly the orange-blossoms clustered in her rich brown hair; let him speak lengthily, whose province it may be to spin three volumes out of one: for me, I always wish to recollect that readers possess, on the average, at least as much imagination as writers.

And why should you not exercise it now?
Is not Emmy in her bridal-dress a theme well worth a revery?
For a similar reason, I must clearly disappoint feminine expectation, by forbearing to descant upon Charles's slight but manly form, and his Grecian beauty, &c., all the better for the tropics, and the trials and the troubles he had passed.
When Captain Forbes, just sitting down to his soup in the Jamaica Coffee-house, read in the _Morning Post_, the marriage of Charles Tracy with Amy Stuart, he delivered himself mentally as follows: "There now! Poets talk of 'love,' and I stick to 'human nature.' When that fine young fellow sailed with me, hardly a year ago, in the Sir William Elphinston, he was over head and heels in love with old Jack Tracy's pretty girl, Emily Warren: but I knew it wouldn't last long: I don't believe in constancy for longer than a week.

It does one's heart good to see how right one is; here's what I call proof.

My sentimental spark kisses Emily Warren, and marries Amy Stuart." The captain, happier than before, called complacently for Cayenne pepper, and relished his mock-turtle with a higher gusto.
It is worth recording, that the same change of name mystified slanderous friends in the Presidency of Madras.
And now, kind-eyed reader, this story of '_The Twins_' must leave off abruptly at the wedding.