LITMIR.BIZ

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      "I'll never quite understand why you fell," said he dubiously.

      "I think we were both too young to know," she responded. "It seems to me that we've been in love ever since we were babies."

      "And it never hurts a baby to fall, you know," said he, with fine logic. "Of course it may cripple 'em permanently, but they don't know how it happened."

      For some moments she caressed his brown hair in silence, the smile lingering on her lips after it had left her eyes. His eyes closed dreamily under the gentle touch of her fingers. "But, dear," she said, "this is no joking matter. We have been engaged for nearly three months and not a soul knows of it. We'll have to tell them how we managed to keep it a secret for so long, and why,--and all that. And then everybody will want to know who the bridesmaids are to be."

      "I believe I'd like to know that myself, as long as I'm to walk out of the church ahead of them--provided I don't get lost."

      "Helen Grossman is to be the maid of honor. I believe I'll ask Jean Robertson, Eloise Grant, Harriet Noble, Mayme McMurtrie, Ellen Boyland--"

      "Are we to have no guests?"

      "--and Effa Samuels. Won't it be a pretty set of girls?"

      "Couldn't be prettier."

      "And now, who is to be your best man?"

      "Well, I thought I'd have Tom Ditton," a trifle confusedly.

      "Tom Ditton! I thought you did not approve of him," she cried. "You certainly did not when he came to see me so frequently."

      "Oh, he isn't such a bad sort, after all. I'd just as soon have him as any one. Besides, he's an expert at it. If it was left to me, I'd much rather sit behind the pulpit until it is all over. People won't miss me while they've got you to look at."

      "We could be married so quietly and prettily if it were not for Aunt Elizabeth," pouted Miss Vernon. "She insists on the church wedding, the teas and receptions and--"

      "All that sort of rot," he interjected, as if fearing she might not express herself adequately. "I like your Aunt Elizabeth, Grace, but she's--she's an awful--"

      "Don't say it, Hugh. I know what you mean, but she can't help it. She lives for society. She's perfectly crazy on the subject. Aunt Elizabeth made up her mind we should be married in church. I have talked myself black in the face--for your sake, dear--but it was like trying to convert a stone wall. She is determined. You know what that means."

      "No wonder she's a widow," growled Hugh Ridgeway sourly. "Your father served you a mighty mean trick, dear, when he gave you over to her training. She might have spoiled you beyond redemption."

      "Poor father! He loathed display, too. I've no doubt that is why he left me in her care until I reached the age of discretion. She was not always like this. Father's money has wrought the change. Aunty was as poor as a church mouse until father's death put her at the head of my household--it was mine, Hugh, even if I was only six years old. You know we could live pretty well on forty thousand a year."

      "You'll have a million or so when you're twenty-three, dear, and I'll venture to say your aunt has saved something in all these years."

      "Oh, she had at least two hundred thousand dollars by the will. It has cost her nothing to live all these years as my guardian and trustee. We just had to do something with my income, you know."

      "I don't see why you should let this fortune stand in the way, Grace," growled he. "Haven't I enough of my own to take its place?" Hugh Ridgeway had a million in his own right and he could well afford to be unreasonable. "The will says you are not to have your father's money until you are twenty-three years old. He evidently thought that was a discreet age. You are not to marry before you have reached that age. I've been waiting for two years, Grace, and there still remains two months--"

      "One month and twenty-eight days, Hugh," she corrected.

      "And in the meantime we have to stay here and face all this ante-nuptial wretchedness. It's sickening, Grace. We hate it, both of us. Don't we? I knew you'd nod your head. That's why I can't help loving you. You've got so much real good hard sense about things. If your confounded Aunt Lizzie--Elizabeth, I should say--would let us get married as we want--Hang it all, Grace, it's our affair anyhow, isn't it? Why should we permit her to dictate? It's not her wedding. She's been married twice; why can't she let well enough alone?"

      "She loves me, Hugh, after all," gently.

      "Well, so do I. I'm willing--not perfectly willing, of course--but reasonably so, that we should wait until the twenty-third of May, but I don't see why we should have the whole town waiting with us. Why don't you assert yourself, dear, before it is too late? Once she pulls off this announcement party, it's all off with peace of mind and contentment so far as we are concerned. Of course, she'll be enjoying it, but what of us? Are you afraid of her?"

      "Don't bully me, Hugh," she pleaded. He was contrite at once and properly so. "She has lived for this time in her life. She never has been crossed. I can't--honestly I can't go to her now and--quarrel. That's what it would mean--a quarrel. She would never give in."

      "Well, then, all hope is lost," he lamented. For some minutes Miss Vernon gave no response, sitting upon the arm of the chair, a perplexed pucker on her brow and a thoughtful swing to her slippered foot.

      These young people had known each other since earliest childhood. They had played together with the same neighborly toys and they had grown up together with the same neighborly ideals. Both had whirled in the social swing until the sensation palled. The most exclusive set in town regarded them as among its most popular members. It was quite natural that their wedding should be the most brilliant and fashionable of the year. Their position in society demanded the sacrifice, and her aunt saw the urgent need for making it, notwithstanding the opposition of the young people themselves.

      Ridgeway was a couple of years older than his affianced bride, and she was just short of twenty-three. She, an orphan since early childhood, lived with her widowed aunt--the social gourmand, to quote Hugh Ridgeway--and he made his home next door with his sister and her husband. The two brown stone houses were almost within arm's reach of each other. She had painted dainty water colors for his rooms and he had thrown thousands of roses from his windows into her boudoir. It had been a merry courtship--the courtship of modern cavalier and lady fair. Ridgeway's parents died when he was in college, and he was left to enlarge or despise a fortune that rated him as a millionaire and the best catch in town--at that time.

      He was a member of the Board of Trade, but he was scarcely an operator in the strictest sense of the word. If he won he whistled, if he lost he whistled. It mattered little. Good looking, well dressed, generous to a fault, tainted but moderately with scandal, he was a man whom everybody admired, but who admired few in return--a perfectly natural and proper condition if one but stops to consider.

      Miss Vernon was beautiful--of that there was no question. Tall, fair, brown-eyed and full of the life that loves, she ruled the hearts of many and--kept her hand for one. Her short, gay life had been one of luxury and ease. She had known few of its cares; its vicissitudes belonged to the charities she supported with loyal persistency. Her aunt, society mad, was her only mentor, her only guide. A path had been made for her, and she saw no other alternative than to travel it as designed. A careless, buoyant heart, full of love and tenderness and warmth, allowed itself to be tossed by all of the emotions, but always sank back safely into the path of duty and rectitude. It was not of sufficient moment to combat her aunt's stubborn authority; it was so much easier to do her own sweet will without conflict and then smile down on the consequences.

      Possibly it is true that she did not love her aunt. If that were the case, she kept it well to herself. She could not have been blamed, however, for disliking the dictator. Hugh Ridgeway was more or less right when he said that no one in town admired the old lady. She was hard, devoid of humor, wrapped up in her own selfishness; shrewd, capable and resourceful. Her brother, on his deathbed, signed the instrument which made this arrogant relative the arbiter of the girl's future for many years to come. She was appointed guardian and trustee

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