"Trust Bertha Harris to find things!" said the clergyman.

The ceremony proceeded without further incident. The final words were

pronounced and Anna sank into a chair, relieved that it was over,

whether it was for better or for worse.

Sanderson hurried her into the carriage before the clergyman and the

witnesses could offer their congratulations. He pulled her away from

the yellow-haired housekeeper, who would have smothered her in an

embrace, and they departed without the customary handshake from the

officiating clergyman.

"You were not very cordial, dear," she said, as they rolled along

through the early winter landscape.

"Confound them all. I hated to see them near you"--and then, in answer

to her questioning gaze--"because I love you so much, darling. I hate

to see anyone touch you."

The trees were bare; the fields stretched away brown and flat, like the

folds of a shroud, and the sun was veiled by lowering clouds of gray.

It was not a cheerful day for a wedding.

"Lennox, did you remember that this is Friday? And I have on a black

dress."

"And now that Mrs. Lennox has settled the question of to wed or not to

wed, by wedding--behold, she is worrying herself about her frock and

the color of it, and the day of the week and everything else. Was

there ever such a dear little goose?" He pinched her cheek, and

she--she smiled up at him, her fears allayed.

"And why don't you ask where we are going, least curious of women?"

"I forgot; indeed I did."

"We are going to the White Rose Inn. Ideal name for a place in which

to spend one's honeymoon, isn't it?"

"Any place would be ideal with you Lennie," and she slipped her little

hand into his ruggeder palm.

At last the White Rose Inn was sighted; it was one of those modern

hostelries, built on an old English model. The windows were muslined,

the rooms were wainscoted in oak, the furniture was heavy and

cumbersome. Anna was delighted with everything she saw. Sanderson had

had their sitting-room filled with crimson roses, they were everywhere;

banked on the mantelpiece, on the tables and window-sills. Their

perfume was to Anna like the loving embrace of an old friend.

Jacqueminots had been so closely associated with her acquaintance with

Sanderson, in after years she could never endure their perfume and

their scarlet petals unnerved her, as the sight of blood does some

women.

A trim English maid came to assist "Mrs. Lennox," to unpack her things.

Lunch was waiting in the sitting-room. Sanderson gave minute orders

about the icing of his own particular brand of champagne, which he had

had sent from Boston.




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