There came, at last, an hour before the wedding, a lull in the feverish activities of the previous month. Everything was ready. In the Lorenz kitchen, piles of plates, negro waiters, ice-cream freezers, and Mrs. Rosenfeld stood in orderly array. In the attic, in the center of a sheet, before a toilet-table which had been carried upstairs for her benefit, sat, on this her day of days, the bride. All the second story had been prepared for guests and presents. Florists were still busy in the room below. Bridesmaids were clustered on the little staircase, bending over at each new ring of the bell and calling reports to Christine through the closed door:-- “Another wooden box, Christine. It looks like more plates. What will you ever do with them all?” “Good Heavens! Here's another of the neighbors who wants to see how you look. Do say you can't have any visitors now.” Christine sat alone in the center of her sheet. The bridesmaids had been sternly forbidden to come into her room. “I haven't had a chance to think for a month,” she said. “And I've got some things I've got to think out.” But, when Sidney came, she sent for her. Sidney found her sitting on a stiff chair, in her wedding gown, with her veil spread out on a small stand. “Close the door,” said Christine. And, after Sidney had kissed her:-- “I've a good mind not to do it.” “You're tired and nervous, that's all.” “I am, of course. But that isn't what's wrong with me. Throw that veil some place and sit down.” Christine was undoubtedly rouged, a very delicate touch. Sidney thought brides should be rather pale. But under her eyes were lines that Sidney had never seen there before. “I'm not going to be foolish, Sidney. I'll go through with it, of course. It would put mamma in her grave if I made a scene now.” She suddenly turned on Sidney. “Palmer gave his bachelor dinner at the Country Club last night. They all drank more than they should. Somebody called father up to-day and said that Palmer had emptied a bottle of wine into the piano. He hasn't been here to-day.” “He'll be along. And as for the other--perhaps it wasn't Palmer who did it.” “That's not it, Sidney. I'm frightened.” Three months before, perhaps, Sidney could not have comforted her; but three months had made a change in Sidney. The complacent sophistries of her girlhood no longer answered for truth. She put her arms around Christine's shoulders. “A man who drinks is a broken reed,” said Christine. “That's what I'm going to marry and lean on the rest of my life--a broken reed. And that isn't all!” She got up quickly, and, trailing her long satin train across the floor, bolted the door. Then from inside her corsage she brought out and held to Sidney a letter. “Special delivery. Read it.” It was very short; Sidney read it at a glance:-- Ask your future husband if he knows a girl at 213 ---- Avenue.