The twelfth was a beautiful day. Clear, frosty
air set the blood to tingling and the eyes to sparkling,
even if it were not your wedding day; while
if it were--

It _was_ Marie Hawthorn's wedding day, and
certainly her eyes sparkled and her blood tingled
as she threw open the window of her room and
breathed long and deep of the fresh morning air
before going down to breakfast.

``They say `Happy is the bride that the sun
shines on,' '' she whispered softly to an English
sparrow that cocked his eye at her from a
neighboring tree branch. ``As if a bride wouldn't
be happy, sun or no sun,'' she scoffed tenderly,
as she turned to go down-stairs.

As it happens, however, tingling blood and
sparkling eyes are a matter of more than weather,
or even weddings, as was proved a little later
when the telephone bell rang.

Kate answered the ring.

``Hullo, is that you, Kate?'' called a despairing
voice.

``Yes. Good morning, Bertram. Isn't this
a fine day for the wedding?''