as preparations had now taken the place of
marriage preparations for every item was ready for the latter event.
There had been a little anxiety about the dress and veil, but they
arrived on the morning of the twentieth and were beautiful and fitting
in every respect. The dress was of the orthodox white satin and the
veil fell from a wreath of orange flowers and myrtle leaves. And oh,
how proud and happy Thora was in their possession. Several times that
wonderful day she had run secretly to her room to examine and admire
them.

On the morning of the twenty-first she reminded herself that in two
days Ian would be with her and that in nine days she would be his
wife. She was genuine and happy about the event. She made no pretences
or reluctances. She loved Ian with all her heart, she was glad she was
going to be always with him. Life would then be full and she would be
the happiest woman in the world. She asked her father at the breakfast
table to send her, at once, any letters that might come for her in his
mail. "I am sure there will be one from Ian," she said, "and, dear
Father, it hurts me to keep it waiting."

About ten o'clock, Mrs. Beaton called and brought Thora a very
handsome ring from Maximus Grant and a bracelet from herself. She
stayed to lunch with the Ragnors and after the meal was over, they
went upstairs to look at the wedding dress. "I want to see it on you,
Thora," said Mrs. Beaton, "I shall have a wedding dress to buy for my
niece soon and I would like to know what kind of a fit Mrs. Scott
achieves." So Thora put on the dress, and Mrs. Beaton admitted that it
"fit like a glove" and that she should insist on her niece Helen going
to Mrs. Scott.

With many scattering, delaying remarks and good wishes, the lady
finally bid Thora good-bye and Mrs. Ragnor went downstairs with her.
Then Thora eagerly lifted two letters that had come in her father's
mail and been sent home to her. One was from Ian. "The last he will
write to Thora Ragnor," she said with a smile. "I will put it with
his first letter and keep them all my life long. So loving is he, so
good, so handsome! There is no one like my Ian." Twice over she read
his loving letter and then laid it down and lifted the one which had
come with it.

"Jean Hay," she repeated, "who is Jean Hay?" Then she remembered the
writer--an orphan girl living with a married brother who did not
always treat her as kindly as he should have done. Hearing and
believing t