Alan woke early on the morning of his wedding day. His personal attendant had placed all his wedding clothes ready for him, and he donned the golden robe and swung from his shoulders the blue velvet cloak. It was lined with gold, and caught up at one corner with a beautiful jewelled buckle. His fillet of gold was on his head, and as he looked at himself in the long glass he saw the romantic robes fade away, leaving in their place a worn and shabby, but nevertheless very comfortable golf jacket. The shadowy figure was carrying a bag over his shoulder—golf clubs. Alan sighed. It was a very long time since he had teed up, and with a mighty drive seen a little white ball sent skimming along at a terrific pace. He could see the ascent to the approach of his favourite green; the green itself, smooth and velvety, resting in a little hollow below. Well, he would get his game of golf on Jupiter. He would plan a course, have clubs made, and he and Chlorie would—No, he didn’t regret giving up the old and ugly garments of the earth. He regretted nothing. He wouldn’t have altered his fate if it had been in his power to do so. Life held nothing for him but Chlorie. Life and love were before him, and he felt fitted for and happy in the new world. His golden, sandal-like boots were on. The ring for Chlorie was in his satchel purse. The Crown of Wifehood with which he would presently crown her was in Y-Kjesta’s possession. The Waz also had taken care of the gifts, which according to the rites of the Temple he must present to his wife. The coins, to represent that he endowed her with his wealth. The loaf divided in two—to denote that she would share in everything. The fresh cut flowers, a symbol of the joys they would find in each other, and lastly the basket of fruits that were to be laid on the Altar and offered as a burnt offering to Mitzor the Mighty. As they were reduced to ashes, the High Priest would waft them to the four winds of heaven, and the nuptial pair would swear to love each other until such time arrived as the burnt fruits regained their virgin freshness. A poetical way of vowing their eternal fidelity each to the other. Waz-Y-Kjesta entered. He was plainly nervous at the thought of the part he was to play in the day’s ceremony. “The time has come, my Alan. Your bhor awaits you.” “I am ready,” Alan smiled at the Waz. “I don’t know how I should get on without you to-day.” The streets were thronged with people. Alan sat alone in the State Bhor which drove slowly down the decorated streets, and immediately in front of the bridegroom’s equipage rode Y-Kjesta, on a magnificent white coli.