“Dear! You see we were mistaken. They _do_ love you here, in rough old Windover--bless it, after all! We were too anxious--I was worried; I own it, now. I was afraid because you were so precious to me. And I could not be with you ... if anything ... went wrong. But _now_”-- “Now,” he said, “nothing _can_ go wrong. For you are mine, and I am yours, and this is forever.” “I am glad to hear you speak so cheerfully,” she said, catching at the lighter note in the chord of his words. He did not answer her; and when she looked up, she was surprised at the solemn expression of his face. “Love,” he said, “it is time to go. Kiss me, Helen, before we start.” They stood at the window in her own little room in the summer cottage. The tide was rising, and it gained quietly upon the beaches and the pier. Bayard looked out upon the sea, for a moment, out to the uttermost horizon’s purple curve. Then he took his wife to his heart, and held her there; within a clasp like that, no woman speaks, and Helen did not. * * * * * The Professor and his wife passed down Angel Alley. The Reverend Mr. Tompkinton and that dear old moderator, the very Orthodox but most Christian minister who had always done a brother’s deed by the heretic pastor when he could, followed the great Professor. These officers of the evening’s ceremony entered the chapel, and--not staying to leave Mrs. Carruth in a front pew, but leading her with them--passed on to the platform. Whispers buzzed about. “The minister! Where’s the minister? Has anything happened to Mr. Bayard?” For the chapel was already full. Captain Hap trotted impatiently down the aisle. Job Slip looked at the policeman in the vestibule in a worried way. But the officer stolidly signaled that all was well; and Captain Hap and Job Slip and scores of watchers breathed again. The congregation increased quietly. Angel Alley was unprecedentedly still. The audience was serious and civil. All of Bayard’s own people were there--many citizens of Windover--and the young folks from the churches, as expected. Then, came the throng from the wharves. Then, came the crowd from the streets. Then, came the rough, red faces from foreign ports, and from the high seas, and from the Grand Banks, and Georges’. There came all the homeless, neglected, tossed, and tempted people whom Bayard loved, and who loved him. There came the outcast, and the forgotten, and the unclean of heart and body. There came the wretches whom no one else thought of, or cared for. There came the poor girls who frequented no other house of worship, but were always welcomed here. There came the common people, who heard him gladly; for to them he spoke, and for them he lived.