every year for some weeks, and unless she stole out of the house now at the eleventh hour she would have to depend on his promise. Altogether she would be dependent on him, it seemed--dependent on his pleasure and displeasure, on his opinions, on his family. Her own family would be a long way off henceforward. She lay down, half dressed, outside her bed, weary, dispirited and in doubt. So her mother found her, fast asleep, next morning. She had slept through the hour when she might have escaped, slept fast and dreamlessly as she had not done for a week. “It is ten o’clock,” said Mrs. Müller. “I would not allow them to wake you. But now you’ve only just time to dress.” “I meant to wake at six,” said Brenda, still dazed with sleep. “What for?” said Mrs. Müller, whose hands were full of letters, telegrams and parcels. Her question remained unanswered, but she did not notice it because a maid came in with a breakfast tray and because there were various things to look at and discuss. She was not quite happy about her daughter’s marriage, but it never even occurred to her that anything could stop it now. Anyhow, nothing did stop it. At three o’clock Brenda came out of church married, for better for worse, to Lothar, and at five o’clock she departed with him in her father’s car. They were going to Dover that night and to Paris to-morrow. The wedding had been a crowded one and well arranged. Eight bridesmaids and two pages had followed Brenda to the altar, a full choral service had accompanied her marriage vows, her friends had given her an affectionate send off, and as she took a last look at her old home she saw her own people in the foreground, her father and mother, Jem, Violet and Thekla, and Thekla’s two little girls, Mary and Barbara. “_Gott sei Dank_, that’s over,” said Lothar. “Take off your veil, little wife. It is impossible to kiss a woman properly through a veil.” “People can see in,” said Brenda doubtfully. “What do I care?” cried Lothar, and strained her fiercely to him.