ds--telephone. Of course, I see what has happened," faltered the
young stockbroker. "Oh, Dolly--Dolly."

"What have I done? Nothing very serious, I hope. If you don't want to
have the church decorated, why, I--I--shan't mind very--very much."

"It isn't that at all," said Jack, looking very queer. "Of course you
didn't know. Unluckily the message didn't mean flowers, but shares in
the 'Rosebud Gold Mining Company.'"

"Oh!"

It was quite true that Jack had contemplated speculating in "Rosebud"
shares, but he had heard some disquieting rumours about the mine, and
had decided not to touch them. And here he was the prospective owner of
5,000! Only two days before the quotation was 10s., with a tendency to
drop. To take them up was impossible, to sell would mean a loss.

"Dolly," said he hurriedly, "let me see you into an omnibus." And, after
a hasty farewell, he packed the young lady into a Kensington 'bus, and
rushed to the Mining door of the Stock Exchange in Broad Street.

"What are Rosebuds?" he inquired excitedly of a well-known stockbroker.

"15_s._ 6_d._, buyers, 14_s._ 6_d._, sellers."

And they were 7_s._ 6_d._, 7_s._, when the market opened that morning.
What did it mean, and at what price had he, or rather, had Dolly, bought
them?

He knew from whom the telephonic message had come. He dashed into his
office and rang up the man, a member of a West End firm of brokers.

"Eight shillings," was the reply. "Congratulate you. Your profit already
will pay for your honeymoon and a little more besides. Of course you'll
sell. It's a market rig, and I happen to be in the know."

Sell? Of course he would. A profit of over L1,800 would recoup him for
his loss of that morning, and leave him a handsome balance in the
bargain.

"Dolly, dearest," he whispered that night, "the rosebuds are all right.
The old church shall be smothered in them from end to end."

And so it was, but like a prudent man he never explained that but for
Dolly's unconscious assistance there might have been no roses and
perhaps very little honeymoon. He was afraid Dolly might want to help
him again!

A TALE OF SIMLA.

BY DR. HELEN BOURCHIER.

There was a dinner-party that night at the lieutenant-governor's, and
those of the governed who had followed him from his territory of Lahore
up to Simla were bidden to the feast. In one of the pretty private
sitting-rooms of the Bellevue Hotel three ladies were discussing
chiffons in connec