"Yes, why not? I am sure the Vicar of All Saints, whose church I have attended, will marry us." "Oh, I don’t doubt that! Yes, of course you shall be married here." "There’s only one thing," said Doris. "The Austins are not here. And I must have dear Mrs. Austin, and her good son Sam, at my wedding." "Send for them all," interposed Bernard, entering the room and overhearing her last remark. He had been for a bathe, and was looking well and happy. There is no greater restorative for body and mind than happiness. "Send for them?" said Doris. "Oh, but I don’t think they will come if we send for them. I think I shall have to go and see Mrs. Austin, and arrange with her about their coming down." "You’re not strong enough to take all that trouble," said Bernard. "It will take you all your time until our wedding-day"--he spoke with joy and pride--"to recover sufficiently for it and for our little tour afterwards." "We’ll not go far," said Doris. "Why should we go far," she laughed happily, "when we have found each other?" "Why indeed? Supposing we go to the Isle of Wight, will that do?" "Yes, charmingly. I have never been there. But, Bernard, I must go to see dear old Mrs. Austin and invite her to the wedding." "Cannot you write to her?" "No, a letter will not do. Think how good she was to me when I was penniless and a stranger in London! Can I ever forget how she received me into her house, and trusted me to repay her as I could? And then she gave me her late son’s painting materials, and tried to make me believe I should succeed as an artist,--and, afterwards, when that had failed, she comforted and encouraged me, and got her nephew to find me work, and, later, interested Alice in employing me; and then afterwards, when I gave up the business and became poor again, she stood by me, trusting and caring for me more lovingly than ever. Bernard, if there is one friend in all the world whom we ought to value and esteem next to the Sinclairs it is Mrs. Austin, and, next to her is Sam Austin, the cabman." "What did he do?" asked Bernard, though indeed he partly knew. "He saved me from despair that first night, when, on coming to London by the night train, I found my godmother, Miss Earnshaw, had died, and that I was alone in the great metropolis, with only a few shillings in my pocket, and no claim upon any one in all the vast city. He took me to his mother, and persuaded her to receive me into her house; and then, afterwards, when I had made my first little water-colour sketches, he drove me round to the dealers in his cab, and would take no payment then, nor afterwards, until I was earning a lot of money, and then compelled him to do so." "He shall come to our wedding, too," said Bernard. "They shall both be our honoured guests." "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" "And I’ll tell you what we will do, darling. We will give them a wedding-present, yes, we will!" "Oh, thank you!"