Now Cyrus' ideas of matrimony were vague, and impersonal. As a game it had never interested him. He had given it no attention. On some other subject he had definite views--such as war, baseball, voyages of discovery, balloons, maple sugar, battleships and the different kinds of ice cream. But this marriage business, now that Ruth wanted it, had suddenly become important. And when Ruth really wanted a thing he felt that reason, religion and the Laws of Man and Nature should stand aside. Moreover, Cyrus was no quitter. He was not of those who are easily discouraged. Persistence, the sort that stiffens in disaster, was one of his dominant traits. A precious gift on occasions; but there were times, in the bosom of his own family, when it was not admired. As guides to character the drowsy eyes and cherubic mouth were, in this particular, misleading. Behind them lay the tenacity of purpose which so often transforms defeat into victory. In this present emergency there seemed to him especial demand for achievement. Ruth wanted something and when Ruth wanted something it was not for him, nor for others, to reason why. So now, while the bride, crushed to earth, was mourning the downfall of a high endeavor, her companion had not accepted defeat. With roving eyes and tight shut mouth he was seeking some other road to victory. Inspiration came. Seeing no road to victory, up or down the village street, his eyes turned heavenward. As they rested on the spire of the Unitarian church, just across the way, there came an answer to his appeal. It came through the open windows of the church--the notes of an organ. He turned and seized his fiancée by an arm. "Ruth! Listen!" "To what?" "To that music! It's Horace Phillips practising on the organ!" Ruth nodded in acknowledgment of the fact, but she saw no relation between the music and their late rebuff. "We can go right over there and get married," said Cyrus. "It doesn't matter who does it so long as it is in a church and there's music." "Are you sure?" "Yes, of course! Ask anybody." There was nobody to ask, so he took her by the hand and started forward. She held back. He pulled harder. "Come along. There's the church all open; and the organ playing. It's just the place to be married." She yielded. "But there's no minister to do it." "That don't make any difference. As long as we are married in a church with music, anybody can do it." He spoke with authority--the kind that carries conviction and puts an end to controversy. As they started, however, she again held back, and exclaimed, in a final despair, "Oh, I forgot!" "Forgot what?" "The ring. We have to have a ring." "What's the use of a ring?" "Nobody is married without a ring. The man puts a ring on the woman's finger and says things." "Well--I can say the things and we'll just play there's a ring." "No." "Oh, come along!" "No."