he son of the Bishop murmured:

"Er--Mrs. Robeson----"

"Yes, Mr. Farnham----" said Juliet promptly, her delicate flush answering
the name, as it had answered it many times that day.

"When are you going to be at home to your friends?"

"The fifteenth day of October," said Juliet. "And from then on, every day
in the week, every week in the year. Come and see us--everybody. But don't
expect any formal invitations."

"I'll be down," declared the Bishop's son. "I'll be down once a week."

"Please don't stay long after we are gone," requested Anthony, putting his
bride into the cart and springing in beside her. He gathered up the reins.
"Good-bye," he called. "Take this next train home. It goes in an hour.
Lock the door, Carey, and hang the key up in plain sight by the window
there. We live in the country now, and that's the way we do.
Good-bye--good-bye!"

Then he drove rapidly away down the road.

"And that pair," said the son of the Bishop gravely, looking after them
and speaking to the company in general, "married, so to speak, in a
hay-wagon, and going for a wedding trip in a wheel-barrow through the
Berkshires, is Juliet Marcy and Anthony Robeson."

"No, my son," said the Bishop slowly--and everybody always listened when
the Bishop spoke: "It is Anthony and Juliet Robeson--and that makes all
the difference. I think two happier young people I never married. And may
God be with them."

The best man said that he and the maid-of-honour would walk the half-mile
to the station. The son of the Bishop and the sister of the best man had
already taken this course without saying anything about it. Nearly
everybody murmured something about it being a lovely evening and a
glorious sunset and a charming road, and, pairing off advisedly, adopted
the same plan. The Bishop and Mrs. Bishop, Mrs. Dingley and Mr. Marcy
decided on being driven over to the station in a light surrey provided for
this anticipated emergency.

The best man and the maid-of-honour succeeded in dropping behind the rest
of the pedestrians. Their friends were used to that, and let them
mercifully alone.

"Mighty pretty affair," observed Carey in a melancholy tone.

"Yes--in its way," admitted Judith Dearborn with apparent reluctance.

"Cosy house."

"Very."

"Tony seemed happy."

"Ecstatic." Judith's inflection was peculiar.

"Nobody would have suspected Juliet of feeling blue about living off
here."

"She doesn't seem to."

"What's made