to send word to Lion."

Then they parted. Meanwhile the little room-mate had been having a
private conference with her "young man." She now joined Imogen.

"Karl says we shall be married directly, in a church, in half an hour,"
she told her. "And oh, won't you and Mr. Young come to be with us? It is
so sad not to have one friend when one is married."

It was impossible to refuse this request; so it happened that the very
first thing Imogen did in America was to attend a wedding. It took place
in an old church, pretty far down town; and she always afterward carried
in her mind the picture of it, dim and sombre in coloring, with the
afternoon sun pouring in through a rich rose window and throwing blue
and red reflections on the little group of five at the altar, while from
outside came the din of wheels and the unceasing tread of busy feet. The
service was soon over, the signatures were made, and the little bride
went down the chancel on her husband's arm, with her face appropriately
turned to the west, and with such a look of secure and unfearing
happiness upon it as was good to see. It was an unusual and typical
scene with which to begin life in a new country, and Imogen liked to
think afterward that she had been there.

Then followed a long drive up town over rough ill-laid pavements,
through dirty streets, varied by dirtier streets, and farther up, by
those that were less dirty. Imogen had never seen anything so shabby as
the poorest of the buildings that they passed, and certainly never
anything quite so fine as the best of them. Squalor and splendor jostled
each other side by side; everywhere there was the same endless throng of
hurrying people, and everywhere the same abundance of flowers for sale,
in pots, in baskets, in bunches, making the whole air of the streets
sweet. Then they came to the hotel, and were shown to their rooms,--high
up, airy, and nicely furnished, though Imogen was at first disposed to
cavil at the absence of bed-curtains.

"It looks so bare," she complained. "At home such a thing would be
considered very odd, very odd indeed. Fancy a bed without curtains!"

"After you've spent one hot night in America you'll be glad enough to
fancy it," replied her brother. "Stuffy old things. It's only in cold
weather that one could endure them over here."

The first few hours on shore after a voyage have a delightfulness all
their own. It is so pleasant to bathe and dress without having to hold
on an