The Cub was in his element, as, with Billy harnessed to the buggy, he escorted Tom Brownell to the telephone office and the parson’s. Brooke and Lucy opened a great chest in the attic, where some gowns of past luxury were stowed away, to find a muslin for Brooke’s part of bridesmaid; while Mrs. Lawton, thinking as ever first of her husband, told him of the happenings with her hand resting on his, to secure attention, and at the same time wondered, somewhat apprehensively, how the sight of his old friend in the flower of his prosperity would affect him. She need not have troubled, for Adam Lawton dwelt in that strange between-land called Peace, where life is made up of apathy and simple comfort, and was content, a state altogether different from the triumphant peace that follows work achieved or victory won. So it came about that the next afternoon at five, in the little library of the homestead, two strong human identities merged, and Lucy, no longer Lucy Dean, in her dark red travelling gown, her bouquet made by Brooke of fleece-white garden chrysanthemums, turning to her father, clasped her arms about his neck with a new fervour, and whispered, “You see I’m still following your lead, you dear old daddy, so have a care!” Then, led by Brownell, she went to the screened porch, gay with bright leaves and berries, to cut the wedding cake, which, both well baked and safely cooled, crowned the hastily improvised collation. Tatters and Pam appeared wearing white neck bows, and the only outsiders were Mrs. Parks and Charlie Ashton, the mysterious coming of whom no one could fathom, and of which he emphatically declined to tell. Although Brooke watched him wistfully and lingered after the others had left for Gilead station, he made no sign. It was three months since Lorenz had sent word or token. Was it, after all, only an illusion? Brooke even began to doubt if Ashton’s was really the hand that had forwarded the letters from Lorenz. She was minded to ask him outright, but while she hesitated the moment passed, for, entering Mrs. Parks’s landau, he returned with her to Gordon. Looking up at the Sign of the Fox, her talisman, as she passed under it and in at the gate, she wondered if it would ever see another wedding, and smiled in spite of her own thoughts, and at the possible comic answer to them as she looked up the path and saw the parson, lately installed, an unencumbered man of sixty, taking his fourth cup of tea, alternating lemon and cream, while Miss Keith twittered about him with the eatables, and gave a deeply freckled blush at some remark he made in stowing a small, flat package of wedding cake in his waistcoat pocket. Thus does hope often triumph over experience. * * * * *