thusiasm that told how deeply we felt. We were walking in the
Primrose Way, its flowers and songs were sweet, and we thought their
perfume and melody eternal.

I again arrived in Paris at daylight, but early as it was, my
sweetheart, escorted by my servant, was waiting my arrival. It was our
wedding morning. During our drive to the hotel, radiant with joy, she
told me the separation had been a cruel one, and she was so happy to
know we should never be separated again!

At 4 o'clock that afternoon we were married at the American Embassy.

I had told every one I was going to leave the next day for Havre, to
embark for New York. Our baggage was all packed and placed in a van,
which I accompanied to the Havre station, and had stored there. Sunday I
purchased one ticket to Bayonne, one for Madrid and one to Burgos, each
from different agencies. On Sunday morning I took a van to the Havre
station, and transferring our baggage to the road into Spain, checked
all of it to Madrid.

My purpose was to sail by the Lopez & Co. steamer El Rey Felipe from
Cadiz to Mexico, which was advertised to sail ten days later.

We were married very quietly on Friday, and our friends, wisely
recognizing the fact that young married people like to be alone, the
next day said good-bye and returned to Normandy. We spent a quiet and
happy Saturday and Sunday, and on Sunday night we left--my wife, servant
and self--for Cadiz, via Madrid. My wife, like all English people, knew
little of geography, and had such hazy notions of America that she
thought it quite the thing to go to such an outlandish and far off
quarter of the globe as America via a Spanish port. Columbus, she knew,
had gone that way, and why should not we?

We had an all-night ride to Bayonne in one of those antiquated
compartments used in railway carriages all over Europe, but the ride was
not tedious, nor was the night long. This little earth had no happier
couple, and, talking of the happy years that lay before us, the night
rushed by like a fairy dream.

Where was my conscience? Why, my dear reader, I had sung it such a song
that it was delighted with the music, and had, I was going to say, gone
to sleep, but it had not. It was wide awake, and we were good chums. We
both--conscience and I--had persuaded ourselves it was a virtuous deed
to do evil that good might come. My conscience was perhaps as old as the
sun, but I myself was young and too inexperienced to see the fallacy of