d bright red, and a horseshoe pin, almost
life-size, glittered speciously from its folds. His brown, thin face
was crinkled into a semi-foolish smile. Striped cuffs with dog-head
buttons covered the tan on his wrists.

"I do believe he's going to get married," said Honoria, pityingly. "I
never saw him taken that way before. And to-day is the first time in
months that he has cried his wares, I am sure."

Ives threw a coin to the sidewalk. The candy man knows his customers.
He filled a paper bag, climbed the old-fashioned stoop and handed it
in. "I remember--" said Ives.

"Wait," said Honoria.

She took a small portfolio from the drawer of a writing desk and from
the portfolio a slip of flimsy paper one-quarter of an inch by two
inches in size.

"This," said Honoria, inflexibly, "was wrapped about the first one we
opened."

"It was a year ago," apologized Ives, as he held out his hand for
it,

"As long as skies above are blue
To you, my love, I will be true."

This he read from the slip of flimsy paper.

"We were to have sailed a fortnight ago," said Honoria, gossipingly.
"It has been such a warm summer. The town is quite deserted. There is
nowhere to go. Yet I am told that one or two of the roof gardens are
amusing. The singing--and the dancing--on one or two seem to have met
with approval."

Ives did not wince. When you are in the ring you are not surprised
when your adversary taps you on the ribs.

"I followed the candy man that time," said Ives, irrelevantly, "and
gave him five dollars at the corner of Broadway."

He reached for the paper bag in Honoria's lap, took out one of the
square, wrapped confections and slowly unrolled it.

"Sara Chillingworth's father," said Honoria, "has given her an
automobile."

"Read that," said Ives, handing over the slip that had been wrapped
around the square of candy.

"Life teaches us--how to live,
Love teaches us--to forgive."

Honoria's checks turned pink.

"Honoria!" cried Ives, starting up from his chair.

"Miss Clinton," corrected Honoria, rising like Venus from the bead
on the surf. "I warned you not to speak that name again."'

"Honoria," repeated Ives, "you must hear me. I know I do not
deserve your forgiveness, but I must have it. There is a madness
that possesses one sometimes for which his better nature is not
responsible. I throw everything else but you to the winds. I strike
off the chains that have bound me. I renounce t