reparations, so dear to the hearts of all young women, were pushed with
dispatch. There were to be no ceremonials beyond the ones necessary, and
the company to visit the nuptials was limited to a dozen of the family's
most intimate friends. When the evening came, Walker Boggs was on hand,
wearing an extra large waistcoat, and a countenance such as would have
best befitted a funeral. Lawrence Gouger came, his keen eye alert,
foreseeing several chapters in the great novel that Roseleaf was
writing, based on the experiences of the next few weeks. But Archie Weil
wrote a note at the last minute, regretting that a business engagement
that could not be postponed had called him to a distant point, and
sending a magnificent ornament in large pearls for the bride, to whom he
wished, with her husband, all health and happiness.

Mr. Gouger had had many arguments with Mr. Weil, in opposition to the
early date set for the wedding. He had shown that, according to the best
models, the hero of Roseleaf's novel--which was practically the young
man himself, ought to pass through some very harrowing scenes yet before
his wedded happiness began. He feared an anti-climax, and was
apprehensive that the wonderful romance would lie untouched for long
months while Roseleaf sipped honey from the lips of his beloved. And he
acted as if these things were entirely at the disposal of Mr. Weil--as
if the young couple were mere marionettes whose actions he could
control.

"You could put it off if you liked," Gouger said, complainingly. "You
could introduce other elements that would be the making of the novel,
and you ought to do it. They should not marry before next spring, at the
earliest. You run the risk of spoiling everything."

"Good God!" cried Archie. "You talk like a fool. I would have postponed
it forever, if I could, and you know it. But she loves him, and there is
nothing to be gained by delay. Confound you and your old novel! With the
happiness of two human beings at stake you talk about a piece of fiction
as if it was worth more than a blissful life!"

Gouger straightened himself up in his chair.

"It is worth a hundred times more!" he answered, boldly. "A novel such
as Roseleaf's ought to be would give pleasure to millions. But I see you
are bound to have your way. The only hope left is that there will be
trouble enough after marriage to spice the story to the end. A milk and
water, nursing-bottle existence for them would make all th