in trade."

"That does not matter in this country," said Arthur. "No, that's what
he said, too. He is so witty and clever. He said I could write to the
aunts that I had married the son of a leading M. P. of the West."

"Is his father a Member of Parliament?" Arthur asked quickly.

Thursa laughed delightedly. "M. P. stands for 'milk peddler,'" she
said. "Wasn't he adorable to think of that?"

"Very clever indeed," Arthur said quietly.

"We did have screaming fun over it. He said we would spell it
Smeatholym if it would make the aunts feel any easier, and he told me
I could tell them how brave he was--that he once slew a wild oryx. He
said he often drove a yoke of wild oryxen before him as gentle as
lambs. I know Aunt Constance would be deeply impressed with this. He
even went so far, Arthur--he was so deadly in earnest--to give me the
telegraph form to sign. It is all written if I decide to marry him."

"Let me see it!" said Arthur.

She opened her little bead purse and handed him a yellow telegraph
blank, on which was written:

"Mr. John Smeaton,
"Rosser Avenue,
"Brandon,
"L. G. D. is past. O. for O."

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"You could never guess--it is so funny," she laughed. '"L. G. D.' is
'love's golden dream.' 'O. for O.' means 'open for offers.'"

Arthur's face was twitching with pain and anger, but with wonderful
self-control he asked her again:

"Do you want to marry this man?"

"I think I do, Arthur. He's lovely."

Arthur handed her his pencil and motioned to her to sign the blank.

"Oh, Arthur!" she cried, "do you mean it? May I sign it? Do you not
mind?"

She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him impulsively. Arthur
made no response to her embrace, but the perspiration stood out in
beads on his forehead.

"Sign it," he said, almost roughly. He turned away his head, while
she signed her name.

She watched him anxiously. Why didn't he speak? This was dreadfully
unpleasant.

"Thursa," he said at last, "will you sing for me that Rosary song?
Just once. I want to hear it."

She sang it, sweet and tender as ever, every word a caress.

When she was done, he stood up and said very gently, but very sadly,
"I wanted to be sure it was not ever meant for me. A clean cut is the
easiest healed."

He went to his phonograph records and picked out the "Rosary." Only
for a second he fondled it in his hand, then crushed it in pieces and
threw them into the fire. "There no