ked, gaily.

"Norma--my God! If you knew how I love you--how I've longed for you! But
I can't believe it; I never will believe it! What made you do it?"

Her face sobered for a second.

"Just needing you, I suppose! Wolf"--her colour rose--"I want you to
know who it is; it's Chris."

"Who--the man who annoys you?" Wolf asked in healthy distaste.

"The man I'm afraid of," she answered, honestly.

"But--Lord!" Wolf exclaimed, simply, "he has a wife!"

"I know it!" the girl said, quickly. "But I wanted you to know. I want
you to know why I'm running away from them all." Relief rang in her
voice as his delighted eyes showed no cloud. "That's all!" she said.

"Norma, I can't--my God!--I can't tell whether I'm awake or dreaming!"
Wolf was all joy again. "We'll--wait a minute!--we'll get a taxi; I'll
telephone the factory later----" He paused suddenly. "Mother's in East
Orange with Rose. Shall we go there first?"

"No; you're to do as I say from now on, Wolf!"

"Ah, you darling!"

"And I say let's be married first, and then go and see Rose."

"Norma----" He stopped in the street, and put his two hands on her
shoulders. "I'll be a good husband to you. You'll never be sorry you
trusted me. Dearest, it's--well, it's the most wonderful thing that ever
happened in my whole life! Here's our taxi--wait a minute; what day is
this?"

"Whatever else it is," she said, half-laughing and half-crying, "I know
it is my wedding day!"

CHAPTER XXIV

To Rose and her mother, Wolf's and Norma's marriage remained one of the
beautiful surprises of life; one of the things that, as sane mortals,
they had dared neither to dream nor hope. Life had been full enough for
mother and daughter, and sweet enough, that March morning, even without
the miracle. The baby had been bathed, in a flood of dancing sunshine,
and had had his breakfast out under the budding bare network of the
grape arbour. The little house had been put into spotless order while he
slept, and Rose had pinned on her winter hat, and gone gaily to market,
with exactly one dollar and seventy-five cents in her purse. And she had
come back to find her mother standing beside the shabby baby-coach, in
the tiny backyard, looking down thoughtfully at the sleeping child, and
evidently under the impression that she was peeling the apples, in the
yellow bowl that rested on her broad hip. Rose had also studied her son
for a few awed seconds, and then, reminding her mother tha