A dinner of stewed chickens and little white soda biscuits was served them, fit for a wedding breakfast, for the barmaid whispered to the cook that she was sure there was a bride and groom in the parlor they looked so happy and seemed to forget anybody else was by. But it might have been ham and eggs for all they knew what it was they ate, these two who were so happy they could but look into each other’s eyes.

When the dinner was over and they started on their way again, with Albany shimmering in the hot sun in the distance, and David’s arm sliding from the top of the seat to circle Marcia’s waist, David whispered:

“This is our real wedding journey, dearest, and this is our bridal day. We’ll go to Albany and buy you a trousseau, and then we will go wherever you wish. I can stay a whole week if you wish. Would you like to go home for a visit?”

Marcia, with shining eyes and glowing cheeks, looked her love into his face and answered: “Yes, now I would like to go home,—just for a few days—and then back to our home.”

And David looking into her eyes understood why she had not wanted to go before. She was taking her husband, her husband, not Kate’s, with her now, and might be proud of his love. She could go among her old comrades and be happy, for he loved her. He looked a moment, comprehended, sympathized, and then pressing her hand close—for he might not kiss her, as there was a load of hay coming their way—he said: “Darling!” But their eyes said more.

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