Those awful duty letters to Peggy! Only now he fully realized their never-ending strain. Now he could write to her spontaneously, whenever the mood suited, write to her from his heart: "Dear old Peggy, I'm so glad you're happy. Oliver's a splendid chap. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." He had lost a dreaded bride; but he had found a dear and devoted friend. Nay, more: he had found two devoted friends. When he drew up his account with humanity, he found himself passing rich in love. His furlough expired, he reported at his depot, and was put on light duty. He went about it the cheeriest soul alive, and laughed at the memory of his former miseries as a recruit. This camp life in England, after the mud and blood of France--like the African gentleman in Mr. Addison's "Cato," he blessed his stars and thought it luxury. He was not sorry that the exigencies of service prevented him from being present at the wedding of Oliver and Peggy. For it was the most sudden of phenomena, like the fight of two rams, as Shakespeare hath it. In war-time people marry in haste; and often, dear God, they have not the leisure to repent. Since the beginning of the war there are many, many women twice widowed.... But that is by the way. Doggie was grateful to an ungrateful military system. If he had attended--in the capacity of best man, so please you--so violent and unreasoning had Oliver's affection become, Durdlebury would have gaped and whispered behind its hand and made things uncomfortable for everybody. Doggie from the security of his regiment wished them joy by letter and telegram, and sent them the wedding presents aforesaid. Then for a season there were three happy people, at least, in this war-wilderness of suffering. The newly wedded pair went off for a honeymoon, whose promise of indefinite length was eventually cut short by an unromantic War Office. Oliver returned to his regiment in France and Peggy to the Deanery, where she sat among her wedding presents and her hopes for the future. "I never realized, my dear," said the Dean to his wife, "what a remarkably pretty girl Peggy has grown into." "It's because she has got the man she loves," said Mrs. Conover. "Do you think that's the reason?" "I've known the plainest of women become quite good-looking. In the early days of our married life"--she smiled--"even I was not quite unattractive." The old Dean bent down--she was sitting and he standing--and lifted her chin with his forefinger. "You, my dear, have always been by far the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance." "We're talking of Peggy," smiled Mrs. Conover. "Ah!" said the Dean. "So we were. I was saying that the child's happiness was reflected in her face----" "I rather thought I said it, dear," replied Mrs. Conover.