She put her hand in his and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Only that—that I am so happy. It—it frightens me. It seems so like a dream.”
“It’s going to be a long, long dream, isn’t it?” He lifted her hand and kissed it, then put it down in her lap again gently as if he feared a sudden movement might awaken them. “Perhaps it had better be at Mrs. Carnarvon’s house—some morning just before luncheon and we could go quietly away afterward.”
“Yes—and—tell me,” she said, “wouldn’t it be better for us not to go far away—and not to stay long? It seems to me that I most want to begin—begin our life together just as it will be.”
“Are you afraid you wouldn’t know what to do with me if I were idling about all day long?”
“Not exactly that. But I’d rather not take a vacation until we had earned it together.”
“What a beautiful idea! I’ll see what I can do.”
They postponed the wedding until Howard had the “art-department” of the News-Record well established. It was on a bright winter day in the second week of January that they stood up together and were married by the Mayor whom Howard had helped to elect. Only Mr. and Mrs. Carnarvon and Marian’s brother were there. Then the six sat down to luncheon, and at three o’clock Howard and his wife started for Lakewood.
When they arrived a victoria was waiting. As soon as they were seated, Howard said “Home.” The coachman touched his hat and the horses set out at a swift trot. The sun was setting and the dry, still air was saturated with the perfume of the snow-draped pines. Within five minutes the carriage was at a pretty little cottage with wide, glass-enclosed porches. They entered the hall. In the rooms on either side open fires were blazing an ecstatic welcome.