enough, miss," said the one who appeared
to be the leader, "for persuading the gentleman. If you'll give us your
address we'll send you reduced copies of the series of pictures."

An address! I didn't know what to answer, for at present I possess no
such thing, though I thought it would sound queer to say so. I looked
for Sir Somerled, but he had walked away down the road to our motor,
which was hiding from the camera. His back was turned to me, but I could
see that his suit-case had been taken down from its place, and he was
putting something in it.

"I don't know whether I ought to mention this, miss," said the biograph
man, "but you might be interested to know that the gentleman has bought
the costume you wore in the wedding-scene, and paid a good price for it.
That's what he's packing away now, I presume."

"Oh! And did he buy his own costume, too?" I asked.

"No, miss, only yours. I thought you might like to know."

I did like to know. And I supposed that Sir S. would tell me all about
it when he came back, explaining that he'd got the things for a model to
wear in some picture; but not a word did he say--which puzzled me so
much that all the sight-seeing inside the Blacksmith's Shop could not
take my mind off the mystery.

I sat in one of the marriage chairs, and looked at the pictures of the
old priests, and read about the many famous runaway couples since 1754,
beginning with Penelope Smith, the prettiest girl of Exeter, who married
Prince Charles of Bourbon, brother to the King of Naples. But all the
time I was thinking hard about myself and Mr. Somerled, and wondering
why he had secretly bought the wedding-dress.

The guardian of the house made us write our names in the visitors' book,
which Mrs. James thought exactly like signing the register at a proper
marrying. And I said, "If nobody ever asks me to be his real wife, I
shan't be as badly off as other old maids, because, whatever happens, I
have had my wedding--a wedding at Gretna Green!"

V

We had a bridal sort of luncheon in the car, which was shunted off the
highway into a green shadowed road abandoned to summer dreams. Mrs.
James and I were like the flowers of the field, and had given no thought
to food, or where or how we were to get it. We supposed vaguely that
when we grew hungry we should stop at some inn and eat; but Sir Somerled
had a surprise in the shape of an American invention called a
refrigerator basket, nickel-lined, wit