Mamie flushed crimson, and even Allan reddened a little. “Is this the young lady?” asked Mr. Round, looking at Mamie approvingly. “Yes,” said Allan. “Mamie—Miss Welsh.” “I congratulate you, my dear,” said Mr. Round, shaking her kindly by the hand. “I’ve heard of that exploit of yours. The road is your debtor more than I can say. I hate to think what would have happened if it hadn’t been for you.” “I take the credit of this match,” added Mr. Schofield, laughing. “I told Allan it was the only proper thing to do.” “I’d already arrived at the same conclusion,” said Allan, “and we’d just settled it when you called up.” “Well,” said Mr. Round, with another glance at Mamie’s rosy face, “I think you’re to be congratulated too, Allan. You seem to have a knack of falling on your feet. When is it to take place?” “Next month,” answered Allan, boldly, without even glancing at Mamie. That young lady opened her lips and stared at him in astonishment, but closed them again without speaking. “Where are you going for the honeymoon?” “Oh, we haven’t decided. We haven’t much money to spend on a honeymoon, you know.” “Have you thought of California?” “Of California? No, nor of the moon,” answered Allan, with a laugh. “Palm Beach, maybe, if we can get transportation.” “Oh, I guess you can,” said Mr. Round, with a little laugh. “But I’m sorry you hadn’t thought of California. You see, when you spoke of the honeymoon, I thought a little trip through the west would be just the thing, so I pulled a few wires, and here,” he put his hand in his pocket and brought out a thick envelope, “is the result. What shall I do with it?” “What is it?” asked Allan and Mamie in the same breath. “An order from the President to place my private car at your disposal for a month—transportation over the Southern Pacific going and the Northern Pacific returning—what do you say, children?” What could they say! With a chuckle of sheer enjoyment, Mr. Round tossed the envelope into Allan’s lap. “Mind you ask me to the wedding,” he said, and caught up his hat. “Come on, Schofield. We’re in the way.” * * * * * “How do you know I’m going to marry you next month?” demanded Mamie. “I know you are—you can’t refuse—it might send me into a decline.” “Decline, indeed,” sniffed Mamie. “I knew you wouldn’t!” laughed Allan. Mamie laughed too, and kissed him. “Don’t you feel like a fairy god-child?” she asked. “I do.” “What day is it?” he asked, suddenly. “The fifteenth.” “Then to-morrow’s Betty Heywood’s wedding—and I can’t be there—I haven’t even sent a gift. What will she think of me?” “Write and tell her,” suggested Mamie, and Allan did—told her more, perhaps, than Mamie intended he should; and the answer came promptly two days later.