After breakfast, it was the custom of the male half of the Jacobus household to go around the corner of the building and smoke their pipes and cigars where they would not annoy the ladies. We sat under a trellis covered with a grape–vine that had borne no grapes in the memory of man. This vine, however, bore leaves, and these, on that pleasant Summer morning, shielded from us two persons who were in earnest conversation in the straggling, half–dead flower–garden at the side of the house. “I don’t want,” we heard Mr. Jacobus say, “to enter in no man’s _pry_–vacy; but I do want to know who it may be, like, that I hev in my house. Now what I ask of _you_, and I don’t want you to take it as in no ways _personal_, is—hev you your merridge–license with you?” [Illustration] “No,” we heard the voice of Mr. Brede reply. “Have you yours?” I think it was a chance shot; but it told all the same. The Major (he was a widower), and Mr. Biggle and I looked at each other; and Mr. Jacobus, on the other side of the grape–trellis, looked at—I don’t know what—and was as silent as we were. Where is _your_ marriage–license, married reader? Do you know? Four men, not including Mr. Brede, stood or sate on one side or the other of that grape–trellis, and not one of them knew where his marriage–license was. Each of us had had one—the Major had had three. But where were they? Where is _yours_? Tucked in your best–man’s pocket; deposited in his desk—or washed to a pulp in his white waistcoat (if white waistcoats be the fashion of the hour), washed out of existence—can you tell where it is? Can you—unless you are one of those people who frame that interesting document and hang it upon their drawing–room walls? Mr. Brede’s voice arose, after an awful stillness of what seemed like five minutes, and was, probably, thirty seconds: “Mr. Jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and let me pay it? I shall leave by the six o’clock train. And will you also send the wagon for my trunks?” “I hain’t said I wanted to hev ye leave—” began Mr. Jacobus; but Brede cut him short. “Bring me your bill.” “But,” remonstrated Jacobus, “ef ye ain’t—“ “Bring me your bill!” said Mr. Brede. * * * * * My wife and I went out for our morning’s walk. But it seemed to us, when we looked at “our view,” as if we could only see those invisible villages of which Brede had told us—that other side of the ridges and rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the heights of human self–esteem. We meant to stay out until the Bredes had taken their departure; but we returned just in time to see Pete, the Jacobus darkey, the blacker of boots, the brusher of coats, the general handy–man of the house, loading the Brede trunks on the Jacobus wagon. And, as we stepped upon the verandah, down came Mrs. Brede, leaning on Mr. Brede’s arm, as though she were ill; and it was clear that she had been crying. There were heavy rings about her pretty black eyes.