and coated, was bustling about the car, deep in the mysterious
rites incidental to starting. "It's going to be to-morrow!"

"Good grief!" exclaimed Mrs. Dimmick delightedly. "Well," she
added, "folks down here think you've got an awfully pretty bride!"

"I'm glad she's up to the standard down here," Warren Gregory
observed. "Nobody seems to think much of her looks up in the
city!"

Rachael laughed and leaned from her place beside the driver to
kiss the old lady again and to wave a general good-bye to Florrie
and Chess and the group on the porch. As smoothly as if she were
launched in air the great car sprang into motion; the storm-blown
cottages, the battered dooryards, the great shabby trees over the
little post office all swept by. They passed the turning that led
to Clark's Bar, and a weather-worn sign-post that read "Quaker
Bridge, 1 mile." It was not a dream, it was all wonderfully true:
this was Greg beside her, and they were going to be married!

Rachael settled back against the deep, soft cushions in utter
content. To be flying through the soft Indian summer sunshine,
alone with Greg, to actually touch his big shoulder with her own,
to command his interest, his laughter, his tenderness, at will--
after these lonely months it was a memorable and an enchanting
experience. Their talk drifted about uncontrolled, as talk after
long silence must: now it was a waiter on the ocean liner of whom
Gregory spoke, or perhaps the story of a small child's rescue from
the waves, from Rachael. They spoke of the roads, splendidly hard
and clean after the rain, and of the villages through which they