t had all been
arranged,"--the letter ran--"though I was so tired with all I had been
through. But in an hour I had gone straight off, and slept like a child,
my head on such a soft, soft pillow of confidence and rest. O Len,--to
lie on a pillow like that, after months of laying my unhappy head on
stones!

"At ten next morning we went to the little stone church, all overgrown
with ivy, where Granny was a communicant so many years, and there we were
married, with Mrs. Catesby, Mr. Macauley and Martha for witnesses, and
Dr. Markham, the dear old rector, to give us his blessing. After that
John and I walked over to the place where we had laid dear Granny the day
before.

"It wasn't sad, Len; how could it be? The flowers were still fresh
over her, and that blessed sunshine was so bright,--as it is in South
Carolina, I think, when all the rest of the world is dark. When we came
away I felt as I often have when I have put that little frail body to bed
and tucked her in and blown out her candle--as if she must surely sleep
well till morning. I am sure she will--sure!

"Our whole party came North together as far as Harrisburg, then John and
I said good-bye to them and came over to New York, where I am writing to
you, now. I am buying a few simple clothes, just enough to begin to live
with in my new home. In a few days we go to Baltimore, where we shall
settle down in the house, which is just as it was left when John's mother
died, five years ago. He says I may change anything I wish, but from all
I know of his mother and himself I imagine that I shall not care to make
many changes in so fine an old place. He has his offices in a wing--I'm
so glad of that. She wanted him at home, and so shall I.

"Len, you will want to know if I am happy. Do I need to tell you? All my
old readiness of speech fails me when I come to this. In spite of the way
talk bubbles from me, on ordinary subjects, you know I have never said
much of the big things of my life. I didn't tell you a word of all there
was between your guest of last summer and me. Neither can I talk about it
now.

"Just this, to satisfy you, dear. Every time I look at his beautifully
strong, sweet, grave face, at his splendid quiet confidence of manner,
as he leaves me to go away to do some of the wonderful work he does, or
comes back to me after having done that work, I realize what it means to
be the wife of such a man. Oh, yes, I am happy, Len, so gloriously happy
I can't t