For three days after she left the office of the dictionary I saw little of her. "There are some things you can't buy for me--or with me," she smiled. Then we went down together to the City Hall for our license, sneaking in after hours, thanks to the kindly offices of a classmate of mine, the city editor of a newspaper. The clerk beamed upon us like a municipal Cupid. That last evening she left me, to pack her trunks, and I went back to the club, and found there a letter from the magazine where I had submitted my story. It was a letter of acceptance! Misfortunes are not the only things which never come singly. I danced for joy. If the stores had been open I should have rushed out then and there and bought the mahogany secretary we had seen a few days before and wistfully passed by. Fortunately, they were not open. In the morning my cab stopped in front of the old house near Washington Square, and Stella came forth with a friend, a sober little person who appeared greatly impressed with her responsibilities, and bore the totally inappropriate name of Marguerite. "Dear, dear!" she said, "I've never attended a bride before. It's very trying. And it's very mean of you, Mr. Upton, to take Stella from us, and leave me with a new and stupid co-worker. How do you expect the dictionary to come out?" "I don't," said I, "nor do I care if it doesn't. There are too many words in the world already." Bill Chadwick, another classmate of mine, came up from downtown, and met us at the church door. The rector was a friend and fellow alumnus of ours. It was like a tiny family party, suddenly and solemnly hushed by the organ as we stood before the altar, and in the warm dimness of the great vacant church Stella and I were made man and wife. The four of us went out to the cab again, and Bill insisted on a wedding breakfast at Sherry's. "Good Lord!" he said, "you two gumshoe into an engagement, and get married without so much as a reporter in the church, and then expect to make a getaway like a pair of safe breakers! No, sir, you come with me, and get one real civilized meal before you go back to your farm fodder." Bill had the solemn little bridesmaid laughing before the luncheon was over, but the last we saw of them they were waving us good-bye from behind the grating as we went down the platform to our train, and the poor girl was mopping her eyes. "Isn't the best man supposed to fall in love with the bridesmaid?" I asked. "At least I hope he'll dry her tears." "Good gracious, yes!" cried Stella. "I never thought of that. You don't know what we've done! Marguerite is a dear girl and an excellent cross-indexer, but she's no wife for your gay friend William. You'd best send him a telegram of warning." "Never!" said I. "Bill has cruised so long in Petticoat Bay as a blockade runner that I hope she shoots him full of holes and boards him in triumph. Besides, _everybody_ ought to get married."