“I was thinking,” returned Wentworth more gravely than was usual with him, “that is before your singing, Muriel, lifted me out of my mind, as it always does—I was thinking what a man Mr. Parker is. How great and noble—how beautiful were his words and manner. Ah, that was a true marriage service!” “And so was I,” cried Emily, who had been weeping a little. “I was thinking the same thing. I shall never hear our own minister with comfort again.” “Oh, flower of Episcopalians, are you turning Parkerite?” gaily exclaimed Muriel. “I declare I believe I am,” sighed Emily, so dolefully that Wentworth began to laugh, and she herself followed his example. “Come,” cried Wentworth, starting to his feet, “this won’t do. Here are John and Muriel married. Do you realize that fact, Emily?” “Yes, I do,” she answered, bounding up, and rushing over to the lovers to pour out the joy of her heart upon them. Mrs. Eastman and Wentworth followed, and in a moment the room rang with gay talk and frolic hilarity. “And just take notice,” cried Wentworth, amidst the affluent fun, “take notice that Harrington has his wish. He was wishing, Muriel, or rather in a little discussion we had as to the proper mode of doing the marriage ceremony up golden brown, he was observing that to be married in this room, just as he is, with never a ghost of a kid glove on him, or any wedding embellishments, and nobody present but us, would be the height of his ambition. So you see, his Spartan soul is gratified!” “So it is!” laughed Harrington. “I had forgotten it amidst the excitement; but that is what I said, and you, dear fairy princess, have gratified me.” “Hold on now,” burst in the mercurial Wentworth, interrupting Muriel in the gay reply she was about to make. “Hold on! An idea strikes me. To wit, that nobody has called this lady by her new name. Sweet Muriel Eastman, _vale, vale, vale_. Adieu forevermore! Vanish, flower of spinsters, vanish into the fragrant twilight of memory. Mrs. Harrington, appear! All hail, Mrs. Harrington!” “Bravo!” exclaimed Emily, clapping her hands, and undulating backward into a low curtsey. “All hail, Mrs. Harrington!” Muriel, still clasping her husband, looked at them in their mirth with a pensive smile. “I had forgotten it,” she said gently, and almost dreamfully, “for I feel like Muriel Eastman, still, with unmerged individuality.” “And Muriel Eastman you shall be,” laughingly said Harrington; “and with unmerged individuality, too.” “Nay,” said Muriel, with tender gaiety. “My new, sweet name, John—Muriel Harrington. I accept it. At least to the world I will be Muriel Harrington, and you shall think of me, and call me Muriel Eastman, still.” “As I will ever,” responded Harrington. “Bravo!” cried Wentworth. “An amicable adjustment of a serious difficulty. And now, what next?” “Next, music,” laughingly said Emily, moving to the organ.