his overcoat, and then turned. Nevada had not moved. She was looking at
him with strange and pensive directness. Her cheeks had a flush on them
beyond the color that had been contributed by the wind and snow; but her
eyes were steady.

"I was going to tell you," she said, "anyhow, before you--before
we--before--well, before anything. Dad never gave me a day of schooling.
I never learned to read or write a darned word. Now if--"

Pounding their uncertain way up-stairs, the feet of Jack, the somnolent,
and Agnes, the grateful, were heard.


V


When Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Warren were spinning softly homeward in a
closed carriage, after the ceremony, Gilbert said:

"Nevada, would you really like to know what I wrote you in the letter
that you received to-night?"

"Fire away!" said his bride.

"Word for word," said Gilbert, "it was this: 'My dear Miss Warren--You
were right about the flower. It was a hydrangea, and not a lilac.'"

"All right," said Nevada. "But let's forget it. The joke's on Barbara,
anyway!"