Now Cyrus had become interested in this business. He felt a pride in carrying it through. To fail now would be disgrace. In vexation he raised his right hand--the one not holding Ruth's--and thrust its thumb between his teeth. On that hand something glistened. "Why, there's a ring!" exclaimed Ruth, "right on your finger! Isn't it lucky." Cyrus regarded the little silver band. Ruth repeated: "Isn't it lucky!" Cyrus hesitated. "Do I have to give it to you?" "Yes." "For you to keep and not give back?" "Yes, of course!" "But Henry Wheelock made it for me out of a ten-cent piece. I've only had it a little while." "Oh, Cyrus! Would you be so mean as that?" "I'm not mean! You know I'm not mean! Henry Wheelock made it out of my own ten-cent piece and I--I--don't want to lose it." A look of sorrow in Ruth's eyes suddenly changed to contempt. "Then keep your old ring! I'm sure I don't want it." And she pulled away the hand that was in his, wheeled about and started to reënter the house. But Cyrus caught her by the arm. "Oh, that's all right, Ruthy! You shall have it. Come. Don't let's fight." So began this lovers' quarrel. But as often happens, the male of the species besought and appealed, apologized, promised everything, acknowledged guilt and sufficiently humbled himself until Sweet Peace returned. Then all was forgiven, and a second time they started for the church. Zac brought up the rear. On the church steps sat Luther Dean and the New Boy. The New Boy had lived in Longfields only a few weeks. He differed, in many ways, from the other boys of the village. He was blasé, and older in his feelings; he came from a larger town and had seen more of the world. His tendency, now,--natural, perhaps, but unrepressed--was to despise more simple people. He gave the impression among still younger boys of having crowded into his ten years of life a red career of war and piracy, of wild adventure, of reckless deeds and thrilling escapes. These experiences were rather suggested than described, always in a casual off-hand way, calmly and without excitement, in a voice and manner tempered by the wisdom of the ages. And his eyes, light blue and frigidly serene, moved slowly from one listener to another in a weary but patient condescension. His usual haunts, it appeared, were the upper ether, and the deep sea, the cañon and the prairie, the impenetrable forest, the decks of battleships and fields of carnage. As the bridal couple approached the steps, Cyrus called to Luther Dean and beckoned to him. Luther came forward. So also did the New Boy--the Budding Outlaw--although he was not invited; and his presence embarrassed Cyrus, for this was a private business, in a sense, and not for the general public. Besides, Cyrus did not like the New Boy. However, he braced up and put on a careless front. "We want you to marry us, Luther, now, here in the church." Luther frowned, then smiled. "Me? Marry?" "Yes, marry us--Ruth and me."