eep a rowing
engagement, but he was to return to America in a month. They were to
have an early autumn wedding. Marjorie chose her wedding-dress and was
busy with her trousseau. She had invited her brides-maids. It was to be
a brilliant, conventional affair--flowers, music, countless young people
dancing under festoons and colored lights. In August the war broke out.
Leonard had been in training and at the front from the first. Marjorie
crossed the precarious ocean, to be in England for his first leave. It
was now May: they were to be married at last.

"Marjie."

"Len."

"I have just four days, you know, darling. That's all I could get. We've
been transferred to the Dardanelles; else I wouldn't have got off at
all."

"Four days," murmured Marjorie. She looked up, and met his eyes, and
stared, and could not look away. "It's a long, long time, four days,"
she said, without knowing what she was saying. All at once she put her
hands over her eyes, and, pressing her head fiercely against Leonard's
arm, she began to cry and to laugh, continuing to repeat, senselessly,
"It's a long, long time."

And Leonard, trembling all over, kissed her on the back of her head,
which was all he could reach.

They drew near to Richmond, the familiar avenues and the cool, trim
lawn, and the great trees. Marjorie's tongue all at once loosened; she
chattered whimsically, like an excited child.

"It's home, home, home, and they're all waiting for us--mater and your
father and all the family. He's been in a perfect state all day, poor
old dear, though he hasn't an idea any one's noticed it. Little
Herbert's the only one that's behaved a bit natural--and old Nannie.
I've been rushing about your room, sitting in all the chairs, and
saying, 'To-night he'll be sitting in this chair; to-night he may be
standing in this very spot before the fire; to-night he may be looking
out of this window.' O, Len, we're to be married at half-past eight, and
we're going in motors so as not to waste any time. I haven't even read
over the marriage service. I haven't the vaguest idea what to do or say.
But what difference does that make! Do you see, Len? Do you see?" She
stopped and squeezed Leonard's hand, for she saw that he was suddenly
speechless. "There they are," lifting the blind, "mother and little
Herbert; and see the servants peeking from the wing."

They swept grandly around the bend in the avenue. The windows of the
great house blazed a welcome. A