the inclosed documents show,'" he read, "'we have learned
and have legally verified that Jeb--not James--Ferguson
divorced his wife Susan Lenox about a year after their
marriage, on the ground of desertion; and two years later he
fell through the floor of an old bridge near Brooksburg and
was killed.'"

The old bridge--she was feeling its loose flooring sag and
shift under the cautious hoofs of the horse. She was seeing
Rod Spenser on the horse, behind him a girl, hardly more than
a child--under the starry sky exchanging confidences--talking
of their futures.

"So, you see, you are free," said Palmer. "I went round to an
American lawyer's office this afternoon, and borrowed an old
legal form book. And I've copied out this form----"

She was hardly conscious of his laying papers on the table
before her.

"It's valid, as I've fixed things. The lawyer gave me some
paper. It has a watermark five years old. I've dated back
two years--quite enough. So when we've signed, the marriage
never could be contested--not even by ourselves."

He took the papers from the table, laid them in her lap. She
started. "What were you saying?" she asked. "What's this?"

"What were you thinking about?" said he.

"I wasn't thinking," she answered, with her slow sweet smile
of self-concealment. "I was feeling--living--the past. I was
watching the procession."

He nodded understandingly. "That's a kind of time-wasting
that can easily be overdone."

"Easily," she agreed. "Still, there's the lesson. I have to
remind myself of it often--always, when there's anything that
has to be decided."

"I've written out two of the forms," said he. "We sign both.
You keep one, I the other. Why not sign now?"

She read the form--the agreement to take each other as lawful
husband and wife and to regard the contract as in all respects
binding and legal.

"Do you understand it?" laughed he nervously, for her manner
was disquieting.

"Perfectly."

"You stared at the paper as if it were a puzzle."

"It is," said she.

"Come into the library and we'll sign and have it over with."

She laid the papers on the dressing table, took up her brush,
drew it slowly over her hair several times.

"Wake up," cried he, good humoredly. "Come on into the
library." And he went to the threshold.

She continued brushing her hair. "I can't sign," said she.
There was the complete absence of emotion that caused her to
be misunderstood alway