He got himself out of the room again, and then Marcia, who had made him some embarrassed thanks, burst out in praise of his pleasantness. “Well, he ought to be pleasant,” said Bartley, “he's just beaten me on a horse-trade. I've sold him the colt.” “Sold him the colt!” cried Marcia, tragically dropping the napkin she had lifted from the plate of cold chicken. “Well, we couldn't very well have taken him to Boston with us. And we couldn't have got there without selling him. You know you haven't married a millionnaire, Marcia.” “How much did you get for the colt?” “Oh, I didn't do so badly. I got a hundred and fifty for him.” “And you had fifteen besides.” “That was before we were married. I gave the minister five for you,--I think you are worth it, I wanted to give fifteen.” “Well, then, you have a hundred and sixty now. Isn't that a great deal?” “An everlasting lot,” said Bartley, with an impatient laugh. “Don't let the supper cool, Marcia!” She silently set out the feast, but regarded it ruefully. “You oughtn't to have ordered so much, Bartley,” she said. “You couldn't afford it.” “I can afford anything when I'm hungry. Besides. I only ordered the oysters and coffee; all the rest is conscience money--or sentiment--from the landlord. Come, come! cheer up, now! We sha'n't starve to-night, anyhow.” “Well, I know father will help us.” “We sha'n't count on him,” said Bartley. “Now _drop_ it!” He put his arm round her shoulders and pressed her against him, till she raised her face for his kiss. “Well, I _will!”_ she said, and the shadow lifted itself from their wedding feast, and they sat down and made merry as if they had all the money in the world to spend. They laughed and joked; they praised the things they liked, and made fun of the others. “How strange! How perfectly impossible it all seems! Why, last night I was taking supper at Kinney's logging-camp, and hating you at every mouthful with all my might. Everything seemed against me, and I was feeling ugly, and flirting like mad with a fool from Montreal: she had come out there from Portland for a frolic with the owners' party. You made me do it, Marcia!” he cried jestingly. “And remember that, if you want me to be good, you must be kind. The other thing seems to make me worse and worse.” “I will,--I will, Bartley.” she said humbly. “I will try to be kind and patient with you. I will indeed.” He threw back his head, and laughed and laughed. “Poor--poor old Kinney! He's the cook, you know, and he thought I'd been making fun of him to that woman, and he behaved so, after they were gone, that I started home in a rage; and he followed me out with his hands all covered with dough, and wanted to stop me, but he couldn't for fear of spoiling my clothes--” He lost himself in another paroxysm. Marcia smiled a little. Then, “What sort of a looking person was she?” she tremulously asked.