“May and I have decided to go to the county Judge and get married directly,” said he. Our Pullman car had been shunted on a side track at the little station; the rest of the train had gone on, and the little village was quiet and fragrant as a bank of wild flowers. “Fortunately, he is a friend of my father’s.” We found the Judge, I think, before his breakfast, smoking on his piazza, which was covered with jasmine and magnolia. He led us directly across the road to a little brick court-house, where he found another couple waiting already, more sheepish than ourselves, who had driven all night in a buggy, with an old white horse. The groom was awkward and embarrassed, with his trousers tucked in his boots; the bride was buxom and blushing, but seemed hardly more than a child. “First come, first served,” said the Judge, and we all went into the court-house, where the clerk unlocked his register, and the blushing pair stood up before us, the groom having first hitched the old white horse to the fence outside. We four were accommodated with seats upon the bench. “Do you think she’s twenty-one?” whispered the Judge to Raoul, while the rustic bride shuffled uneasily upon her new shoes. “Twenty-one? She’s not eighteen,” said Raoul. “Dear me,” whispered the Judge. “Guess she’ll have to be--reckon I’ll forget to ask her.” The pair were married with us as witnesses; Jeanie gave the bride her parasol for a wedding present, and the old white horse and buggy scrambled away. “And now,” said the Judge, turning to Jeanie, “how old are you?” There was a pause of embarrassment; then Raoul spoke up bravely: “It’s not Miss Jeanie--it’s Miss May Bruce, and she’s quite eighteen.” “Eighteen?” said the Judge. “She must be twenty-one--or have you the parents’ consent?” “No,” said Raoul. “Eighteen is old enough in Alabama.” “Twenty-one in Virginia,” said the Judge. “Give me the Code.” The clerk handed him a musty leather volume from beneath a musty leather Bible. Twenty-one it was, sure enough. “Why did you say she was only eighteen?” said the Judge, peevishly. “But you married the others,” answered I. “True,” said the Judge, “but I’ve had a telegram for you--from a Mr. Kirk Bruce, who, I take it, is a relative of the bride.” Raoul’s face maintained its customary look of quiet determination. “Where is the nearest State where a lady is free to get married at eighteen?” “South Carolina,” said the Judge. “All right,” said Raoul. “I’ve got a car, and I reckon Colonel Carington will give us transportation.” “I’ll see that he does,” said the Judge, his face brightening. “I guess you’d better go to Charleston.” “Spartanburg is the nearest point,” said Raoul. “He’ll never think of Spartanburg.” “True,” said the Judge, “he’ll never think of Spartanburg. Lucky, Colonel Carington is at the Springs.” In two hours we had borrowed an old freight engine and were off on our way to Spartanburg. 9.