Clara was the fifth poor daughter of a rich man. I was respectably poor but artistic. We had looked forward to marriage as a time when two persons chose a home and garnished it with furnishings of their own choice, happy in the daily contact with beautiful things. We had often discussed our future home. We knew just the pictures that must hang on the walls, the tone of the rugs that should lie on the floors, the style of the furniture that should stand in the rooms, the pattern of the silver that should adorn our table. Our ideas were clear and positive. Unfortunately Clara had eight rich relatives who approved of me and I had three maiden aunts, two of whom were in precarious health and must not be financially offended. I am rather an imperious man, with theories that a woman is happiest when she finds a master; but when the details of the wedding came up for decision I was astounded to find myself not only flouted but actually forced to humiliating surrender. Since then I have learned that my own case was not glaringly exceptional. At the time, however, I was nonplused and rather disturbed in my dreams of the future. I had decided on a house wedding with but the family and a few intimate friends to be present at my happiness. After Clara had done me the honor to consult me, several thousand cards were sent out for the ceremony at the church and an addition was begun on the front veranda. Clara herself led me to the library and analyzed the situation to me, in the profoundest manner. "You dear, old, impracticable goose," she said with the wisdom of just twenty, "what do you know about such things? How much do you suppose it will cost us to furnish a house the way we want?" I said airily, "Oh, about five hundred dollars." "Take out your pencil," said Clara scornfully, "and write." When she finished her dictation, and I had added up the items with a groan, I was dumbfounded. I said: "Clara, do you think it is wise--do you think we have any right to get married?" "Of course we have." "Then we must make up our minds to boarding." "Nonsense! we shall have everything just as we planned it." "But how?" "Wedding presents," said Clara triumphantly, "now do you see why it must be a church wedding?" I began to see. "But isn't it a bit mercenary?" I said feebly. "Does every one do it?" "Every one. It is a sort of tax on the unmarried," said Clara with a determined shake of her head. "Quite right that it should be, too." "Then every one who receives an invitation is expected to contribute to our future welfare?" "An invitation to the house." "Well, to the house--then?" "Certainly." "Ah, now, my dear, I begin to understand why the presents are always shown." For all answer Clara extended the sheet of paper on which we had made our calculations. I capitulated. II