whose church I attended, and who came to see mother?"

"Certainly, anyone you like," and he put her hand on his arm and led her away.

The clergyman listened sympathetically to her brief history of Ostrom's
kindness, then performed a simple ceremony which his wife and daughters
witnessed. As they were about to depart he said, "I will send you a
certificate."

"Don't trouble yourself to do that," said the groom. "I'll call for it some
evening soon."

Never had she seen Ostrom in such gay spirits as on their return; and,
woman-like, she was happy chiefly because she had made him happy. She also
felt a glad sense of security. Her mother's dying wish had been fulfilled;
she had now a protector, and would soon have a home instead of a boarding
place among strangers.

Her husband speedily found the rooms to which the reader has been introduced.
The street on which they were located was no thoroughfare. Its farther end
was closed by a fence and beyond were fields. With the exception of those who
dwelt upon it or had business with the residents, few people came thither. To
this locality, Ostrom brought his bride, and selected rooms whose windows were
above those of the surrounding houses. So far from regretting this isolation
and remoteness from the central life of the town, Alida's feelings sanctioned
his choice. The sense of possessing security and a refuge was increased, and
it was as natural for her to set about making the rooms homelike as it was to
breathe. Her husband appeared to have exhausted his tendencies toward close
economy in the choice of apartments, and she was given more money than she
desired with which to furnish and decorate. He said, "fix everything up to