Neither he nor Gladys had ever been told of her adoption; both believed that she was August and Alice Huntress’ own child, and, somehow, a feeling of obligation, that was almost degradation, would now and then assail him, that he was obliged to identify himself in this way. “Geoffrey,” Gladys continued, seeing the cloud still on his face, “do not allow so slight a thing to cast a shadow over our joy to-day. I am so happy—life looks so bright to me, that I am almost afraid it is all a dream, and I shall wake up to find it all gone from my grasp.” He could not resist her bright, tender face, nor the beautiful, trustful eyes as they were raised to his. “My own love,” he replied, his face clearing, “it is no dream to either of us—it is all a delightful reality, and anticipation of the happiness before us, during the coming six months, is like a poem to me. But,” he added, “I suppose I must not detain you here—have you everything that you need or wish for to-night?” “I believe so; but truly. Geoff, I wish it were all over,” Gladys confessed, clinging to him. “Sometimes I have been sorry that we agreed to have all this fuss and excitement. I feel as if the occasion is almost too sacred for the gaze of the curious, and to be mixed up so with show, dress, and so many other petty details. If we could only have just a few of our especial friends with us, and say our vows quietly and solemnly, right here at home, I believe I should like it much better.” This had been Geoffrey’s feeling all along; but it was Mr. Huntress’ desire to have a brilliant wedding, and he could not find it in his heart to oppose any reasonable wish of one who had been so kind to him. “Well,” he answered, “we can comfort ourselves with one thought; the ‘fuss and excitement’ will not last long, then we shall have each other all to ourselves. But, darling, see here.” He drew a tiny case from his pocket, and, opening it, disclosed a heavy gold circlet resting in its bed of velvet—“have you any idea how strong this little fetter is going to be?—only death will ever break the tie that it will cement.” Gladys bent forward to look at the mystic symbol, the vivid color surging to her brow. “Oh, Geoff! what a heavy one; is it marked?” she said. “Yes, and that is why I show it to you—it may not be marked in a way to please you,” and he held it toward her for examination. “Please take it out yourself and let me see—I do not want to touch it,” she said, drawing slightly away. He laughed. “Why, you dear little goose! are you superstitious?” “N—o; but somehow I do not wish to touch it until after _you_ have put it where it belongs,” she answered, softly. He removed it from the case, holding it so that she could see the engraving on its inside surface, and she read, “G. D. to G. H. Dec. 30, 18—.” “G. D.!” she repeated, looking up questioningly.