Austin laughed, straightening his tie. "I can't fuss about this dress," he said, "for I chose it myself. But I'm not half the tyrant you all make me out--I'm wearing white flannel to please her. Is there plenty of supper, Sylvia? I'm almost starved." "I know enough to expect a man to be hungry, even if he's going to be hanged--or married," she retorted, "but I'll run out to the kitchen once more, just to make sure that everything is all right." The third of September had come at last. There was no question, this time, of a wedding in St. Bartholomew's Church, with twelve bridesmaids and a breakfast at Sherry's; no wonderful jewels, no press notices, almost no trousseau. Austin's family, Uncle Mat, and a few close friends came to Sylvia's own little house, and when the small circle was complete, she took her uncle's arm and stood by Austin's side, while the "new minister" married them. Thomas was best man; Molly, for the second time that summer, maid-of-honor. Sadie and James were missing, but as "a wedding present" came a telegram, announcing the safe arrival of a nine-pound baby-girl. Edith was not there, either, and the date of sailing for Holland had been postponed. She had gained less rapidly than they had hoped, and still lay, very pale and quiet, on the sofa between the big windows in her room. But she was not left alone when the rest of the family departed for Sylvia's house; for Peter sat beside her in the twilight, his big rough fingers clasping her thin white ones. There proved to be "plenty of supper," and soon after it was finished the guests began to leave, Uncle Mat with many imprecations at Sylvia's "lack of hospitality in turning them out, such a cold night." Even the two capable servants, having removed all traces of the feast, came to her with many expressions of good-will, and the assurance of "comin' back next season if they was wanted," and departed to take the night train from Wallacetown for New York. By ten o'clock the white-panelled front door with its brass knocker had opened and shut for the last time, and Austin bolted it, and turned to Sylvia, smiling. "Well, _Mrs. Gray_," he said, "you're locked in now--far from all the sights and sounds that made your youth happy--shop-windows, and hotel dining-rooms, the slamming of limousine doors, and the clinking of ice in cocktail-shakers. Your last chance of escape is gone--you've signed and sealed your own death-warrant." "Austin! don't joke--to-night!" "My dear," he asked, lifting her face in his hands, "did you never joke because you were afraid--to show how much you really felt?" "Yes," she replied, "very often. But there's nothing in the whole world for me to be afraid of now." "So you're really ready for me at last?" he whispered. * * * * *