There was a double wedding in the Inn club-room a week later, the Grillage private car having been sent all the way to Brewster to bring the officiating clergyman. Contrary to all precedent--at least in Virginia Grillage’s world--there was no formality. The Inn guests were invited in a body; and on David’s side there was a crowding of engineers in working clothes, of grade foremen and subcontractors, of all and sundry who could be spared from the big job. Eben Grillage, his great body propped in a wheel-chair, gave one of the brides away; but the chief interest for the onlookers centered in the slender, sylph-like figure of the other bride, whose face, almost other-worldly in its delicate, rose-leaf beauty, was as the face of an innocent child, and whose eyes, seeing neither the throng nor the morning sunlight streaming through the windows of the transformed lounging-room, were yet shining with happiness ineffable. “I--I simply _can’t_ believe she is blind!” whispered one white-haired mother of daughters among the witnesses; and there were others, also, to wink away the quick-springing tears of sympathy. Again, contrary to all precedent, there was no wedding journey to follow the simple ceremony in the hotel club-room. Almost immediately the Oswalds went across to the cottage they were to occupy; and a short half-hour after her marriage, Virginia Vallory, clad in serviceable khaki, forthfared with her husband to make a round over the job. The sun was setting crimson fires alight in Qojogo’s cloud cap when they returned to a late dinner. The summerers were thickly clustered on the Inn porches, and the two who had just reached the summit of the steep ridge path turned their backs upon the conventions and their faces toward the western effulgences. “You’ve had the better part of a day to think about it; are you sorry for that little minute of confessions in the tunnel, Vinnie?” David asked, as one still unable to realize his blessings and the full magnitude of them. “Sorry? Why should I be sorry?” “You might have had an old and honorable title, you know,” he reminded her. “Cumberleigh could have given you that much, at least.” She glanced up with a bewitching little twist of the lips which carried him swiftly back to childhood days, and to his memories of her childhood. “I have a title,” she retorted; “the most honorable title in all the world. When I die it shall be graven on my tombstone.” “Epitaphs--already?” he deprecated, with his sober smile. Then, in a sudden rush of poignant tenderness: “Oh, my dear one--let us hope that the day is far distant!”