ure, but I didn't prevent it, or even postpone
it--though I meant to do one or the other, else I should never have made
that tiresome journey half across the continent at two hours' notice.

"However, we shall see what we shall see. As for me, I'm dead tired.
Good night.

"Affectionately yours,

"KATE."

Quite naturally, Mrs. Kate Hartwell was not the only one who was
thinking that evening of the wedding. In the home of Bertram's brother
Cyril, Cyril himself was at the piano, but where his thoughts were was
plain to be seen--or rather, heard; for from under his fingers there
came the Lohengrin wedding march until all the room seemed filled with
the scent of orange blossoms, the mistiness of floating veils, and the
echoing peals of far-away organs heralding the "Fair Bride and Groom."

Over by the table in the glowing circle of the shaded lamp, sat Marie,
Cyril's wife, a dainty sewing-basket by her side. Her hands, however,
lay idly across the stocking in her lap.

As the music ceased, she drew a long sigh.

What a perfectly beautiful wedding that was! she breathed.

Cyril whirled about on the piano stool.

"It was a very sensible wedding," he said with emphasis.

"They looked so happy--both of them," went on Marie, dreamily; "so--so
sort of above and beyond everything about them, as if nothing ever, ever
could trouble them--_now_."

Cyril lifted his eyebrows.

"Humph! Well, as I said before, it was a very _sensible_ wedding," he
declared.

This time Marie noticed the emphasis. She laughed, though her eyes
looked a little troubled.

"I know, dear, of course, what you mean. _I_ thought our wedding was
beautiful; but I would have made it simpler if I'd realized in time how
you--you--"

"How I abhorred pink teas and purple pageants," he finished for her,
with a frowning smile. "Oh, well, I stood it--for the sake of what it
brought me." His face showed now only the smile; the frown had vanished.
For a man known for years to his friends as a "hater of women and all
other confusion," Cyril Henshaw was looking remarkably well-pleased with
himself.

His wife of less than a year colored as she met his gaze. Hurriedly she
picked up her needle.

The man laughed happily at her confusion.

"What are you doing? Is that my stocking?" he demanded.

A look, half pain, half reproach, crossed her face.

"Why, Cyril, of course not! You--you told me not to, long ago. You said
my darns made--bunches.

"Ho! I mea