"Then why do you want to get married here?"
Joe smiled frankly. "The bride's idea."
"I thought so," said the preacher. A glint of humour came into his eyes. "You asked me what it would cost to get married. If you'll go down to City Hall, it will cost you exactly two dollars. But if you care to be married here—well, there's an old scrub-woman I know who for nine years every Sunday has come to this church and put a quarter in the plate to keep this institution going for you. And if you care to use it now it will cost you just what it has cost her. Figure it out and send me a check, or else go down to City Hall."
"I'll pay up," was the prompt reply.
At home he told Ethel about it with keen relish at the joke on himself.
And Ethel smiled rather tensely and said:
"Don't let's make a joke of it, dear. Let's make it as much of a one as we can."
But there was little or nothing to do. And the next afternoon in church it felt so queer and unreal to her as she stood with Joe in front of the pulpit. Behind her in the shadowy place were only Susette and Emily and the building superintendent's wife. No long rows of faces—caring. Only the hard murmur of the busy street outside. No excited whispers here, no music and no flowers, no bridesmaids and no wedding gown.
"I pronounce you man and wife."
Then what?
She took Susette tight in her arms for a moment. Then Emily—thank God for her!—was whispering fiercely in her ear: