The simple ceremony was soon over.
“Can you give Mrs. Sawyer a certificate, Mr. Dysart?”
“Fortunately, yes. I bought some to-day, for I needed them.”
He went into an adjoining room to fill it out.
“Mary, my darling, I am a rich man—richer than I deserve to be, for I have created nothing—but I would give every dollar of my fortune rather than lose you. Does your wedding ring fit? Mine is all right.”
“It ought to be—you had a chance to try yours on.”
“I am a designing villain, Mary. While you were telling that story last night, you will remember that I walked about the room. One of your rings was on the mantelpiece and I tried it on.”
When the clergyman handed Mrs. Sawyer the certificate, Quincy passed him his fee.
“You've made a mistake, Mr. Sawyer. This is a hundred dollar bill.”
“It ought to be a thousand. I'll send you a check for the difference to-morrow—for yourself, or your church, as you prefer.”