Whatever she answered--or even if she did not answer at all--to all appearances, Austin was satisfied. His mother, seeing him for the first time three days later, was almost startled at the radiance in his face. It was, perhaps, a strange honeymoon. But those who thought so had felt, and rightly, that it was a strange marriage. After the first few days, Austin spent every day at the farm, as usual, walking back to the little brick cottage for his noonday dinner, and leaving after the milking was done at night; and Sylvia, dressed in blue gingham, cooked and cleaned and sewed, and put her garden in shape for the winter. In spite of her year's training at Mrs. Gray's capable hands, she made mistakes; she burnt the grape jelly, and forgot to put the brown sugar into the sweet pickle, and took the varnish off the dining-room table by polishing it with raw linseed oil, and boiled the color out of her sheerest chiffon blouse; and they laughed together over her blunders. Then, when evening came, she was all in white again, and there was the simple supper served by candle-light in the little dining-room, and the quiet hours in front of the glowing fire afterwards, and the long, still nights with the soft stars shining in, and the cool air blowing through the open windows of their room. Then, when the Old Gray Homestead had settled down to the blessed peacefulness and security which, the harvest safely in, the snows still a long way off, comes to every New England farm in the late fall, they closed their white-panelled front door behind them, and sailed away together, as Austin had wished to do. There were a few gay weeks in London and Paris, The Hague and Rome--"enough," wrote Sylvia, "so that we won't forget there _is_ any one else in the world, and use the wrong fork when we go out to dine." There was a fortnight at the little Dutch house where by this time Peter and Edith were spending the winter with Peter's parents--"where our bed," wrote Sylvia, "was a great big box built into the wall, but, oh! so soft and comfortable; with another box for the very best cow just around the corner from it, and the music of Peter's mother's scrubbing-brush for our morning hymn." And then there were several months of wandering--"without undue haste, but otherwise just like any other tourists," wrote Sylvia. They went leisurely from place to place, as the weather dictated and their own inclinations advised. Part of the time Edith and Peter were with them, but even then they were nearly always alone, for Edith was not strong enough to keep up, even with their moderate pace. They revisited places dear to both of them, they sought out many new ones; early spring found them in Paris; and it was here that there finally came an evening when Austin put his arms around his wife's shoulders--they had made a longer day of sight-seeing than usual, and she looked pale and tired, as having finished dressing earlier than he she sat in the window, looking down at the brilliant