of "Hush, hush!" came from every quarter and several of the
ushers came over to the pew in which Von Barwig sat. At the sound of
Von Barwig's voice, Helene started as if she had received an electric
shock. Beverly thought she was going to faint and supported her with
his arm.

Helene recognised in a moment that it was the voice of her old music
master, the man she had been told was dead and buried months ago. She
looked quickly at Mr. Stanton for an explanation. "He is not dead;
what does it mean?" she asked. "Go on with the ceremony," was all the
reply she could get from Mr. Stanton. The clergyman went on quietly
with the marriage service. Von Barwig, as soon as the usher tapped him
on the arm, realised that he had made a dreadful mistake, and sank back
into his seat, trembling with excitement and shame. He had not
intended to do such a thing and could not explain even to himself how
it had happened. The wedding ceremony was now over, the process of
signing and witnessing gone over in the vestry, and in a short while
the bride and bridegroom came down the aisle to the sound of
Mendelssohn's inspiring wedding march. As they passed by the pew in
which Von Barwig crouched to avoid recognition, some of the roses in
the bride's bouquet fell to the ground almost at his feet. He picked
them up and tenderly kissed them. Apparently unconscious of his
presence, Helene, surrounded by her friends, passed down the aisle,
down the steps and out into her carriage escorted by Beverly. They
were both radiantly happy.

"It's a happy marriage," said society with an approving nod.

"It's a happy marriage," alike said friends and relations.

"It's a happy marriage," said the stranger outside as the blushing
bride stepped into her carriage and the smiling bridegroom closed the
door shutting them out from view.

"It's a happy marriage," echoed Von Barwig as he trudged through the
snow on his way home. "It's a happy marriage. Thank God for that!"

Chapter Twenty-four

As Von Barwig walked wearily up the stairway leading from the third
floor to the top floor (or _atelier_ as Miss Husted preferred to call
it), he heard the sounds of music. It was Fico playing a waltz, "The
Artist's Life," on the mandolin, while Poons extemporised a _pizzicato_
accompaniment on the 'cello.

"Ah, my boys, they are in," he said to himself. "I hope they didn't
wait breakfast for me."

"Professor, professor!" came the cheery voice