young man, a coming young man.

George and Genevieve had been married five weeks; this was their first
day as master and mistress of the old Remington place on Sheridan Road.

Genevieve, that afternoon, was in the long living-room, trying out
various arrangements of the flowers that had been sent in. There were a
great many flowers. Most of them came from admirers of George. The Young
Men's Republican Club, for one item, had sent eight dozen roses.
But Genevieve, still a-thrill with the magic of her five-weeks-long
honeymoon, tremulously happy in the cumulative proof that her husband
was the noblest, strongest, bravest man alive, felt only joy in his
popularity.

As his wife she shared his triumphs. "For better or worse, for richer
or poorer, in sickness and health..." the ancient phrases repeated
themselves so many times in her softly confused thought, as she moved
about among the flowers, that they finally took on a rhythm--

_"For better or worse,
For richer or poorer,
For richer or poorer,
For better or worse--"_

* * * * *

On this day her life was beginning. She had given herself irrevocably
into the hands of this man. She would live only in him. Her life would
find expression only through his. His strong, trained mind would be her
guide, his sturdy courage her strength. He would build for them both,
for the twain that were one.

She caught up one red rose, winked the moisture from her eyes, and
gazed--rapt, lips parted, color high--out at the close-clipped lawn
behind the privet hedge. The afternoon would soon be waning--in another
hour or so. She must not disturb him now.

In an hour, say, she would run up the stairs and tap at his door. And
he would come out, clasp her in his big arms, and she would stand on the
tips of her toes and kiss away the wrinkles between his brows, and they
would walk on the lawn and talk about themselves and the miracle of
their love.

The clock on the mantel struck three. She pouted; turned and stared at
it. "Well," she told herself, "I'll wait until half-past four."

The doorbell rang.

Genevieve's color faded. The slim hand that held the rose trembled a
very little. Her first caller! She decided that it would be best not
to talk about George. Not one word about George! Her feelings were her
secret--and his.

Marie ushered in two ladies. One, who rushed forward with outstretched
hand, was a curiously vital-appearing creature in