The minister was an old man, and he seemed quite dazed at the suddenness of their demand for his services. But he gathered himself together, and contrived to make them man and wife, and to give them his marriage certificate. “It seems as if there were something else,” he said, absently, as he handed the paper to Bartley. “Perhaps it's this,” said Bartley, giving him a five-dollar note in return. “Ah, perhaps,” he replied, in unabated perplexity. He bade them serve God, and let them out into the snowy night, through which they drove back to the hotel. The landlord had kindled a fire on the hearth of the Franklin stove in his parlor, and the blazing hickory snapped in electrical sympathy with the storm when they shut themselves into the bright room, and Bartley took Marcia fondly into his arms. “Wife!” “Husband!” They sat down before the fire, hand in hand, and talked of the light things that swim to the top, and eddy round and round on the surface of our deepest moods. They made merry over the old minister's perturbation, which Bartley found endlessly amusing. Then he noticed that the dress Marcia had on was the one she had worn to the sociable in Lower Equity, and she said, yes, she had put it on because he once said he liked it. He asked her when, and she said, oh, she knew; but if he could not remember, she was not going to tell him. Then she wanted to know if he recognized her by the dress before she lifted her veil in the station. “No,” he said, with a teasing laugh. “I wasn't thinking of you.” “Oh, Bartley!” she joyfully reproached him. “You must have been!” “Yes, I was! I was so mad at you, that I was glad to have that brute of a station-master bullying _some_ woman!” “Bartley!” He sat holding her hand. “Marcia,” he said, gravely, “we must write to your father at once, and tell him. I want to begin life in the right way, and I think it's only fair to him.” She was enraptured at his magnanimity. “Bartley! That's _like_ you! Poor father! I declare--Bartley, I'm afraid I had forgotten him! It's dreadful; but--_you_ put everything else out of my head. I do believe I've died and come to life somewhere else!” “Well, _I_ haven't,” said Bartley, “and I guess you'd better write to your father. _You'd_ better write; at present, he and I are not on speaking terms. Here!” He took out his note-book, and gave her his stylographic pen after striking the fist that held it upon his other fist, in the fashion of the amateurs of that reluctant instrument, in order to bring down the ink. “Oh, what's that?” she asked. “It's a new kind of pen. I got it for a notice in the Free Press.” “Is Henry Bird going to edit the paper?” “I don't know, and I don't care,” answered Bartley. “I'll go out and get an envelope, and ask the landlord what's the quickest way to get the letter to your father.” He took up his hat, but she laid her hand on his arm. “Oh, send for him!” she said.