“When are you to be married, John?” asked Emily.
“I declare I don’t know,” said he naively. “I never thought of asking Muriel.”
“Never thought—well, that’s a good one!” exclaimed Wentworth. “Why, almost the first thing I asked Emily after our betrothal was”—
“Now, Richard,” cried Emily, scampering up to him with a laugh, and sealing his mouth with her hand.
Wentworth struggled to get free, and succeeding in a minute, seized her hands, and held them, she, in turn, endeavoring to get them upon his mouth again.
“Hear me, for I will speak!” he declaimed, with serio-comic dignity. “The first thing I asked Emily, John, was—when are we to be married?”
“And what did she say?” inquired Harrington, amusedly.
“She said October, John,” replied Emily, laughing. “He shan’t tell you. I’ll tell you myself. Yes, John, we are to be married in October. See my betrothal ring. Is it not beautiful?”
He took the fair hand in his, and looked at the exquisite opal, whose soft, clouded flames of iridescent color shone on her finger.
“Beautiful,” he assented, pressing the hand to his lips. “I pray for your life-long happiness, dear Emily. Yours and Richard’s. And may I be present at your wedding?”