How dared you do such a thing--so many things, I mean?"
"Was not the prize worth even more of an endeavour? I have always
thought _Young Lochinvar_ was a model lover. But here we are."
The Rev. Mr. Dysart received them with pleasant words of welcome, and
reminiscences of life in Yonkers, and memories of Mary's mother, held
Cupid in abeyance for an hour. Quincy passed the license to the
clergyman who read it and looked up inquiringly.
"It's all right, isn't it?" Quincy asked.
"Why yes,--but--I never supposed--why, of course--but when?"
"Now, at once," said Quincy. "We must be home by eleven, for they
lock the doors."
The simple ceremony was soon over.
"Can you give Mrs. Sawyer a certificate, Mr. Dysart?"
"Fortunately, yes. I bought some to-day, for I needed them."
He went into an adjoining room to fill it out.
"Mary, my darling, I am a rich man--richer than I deserve to be, for
I have created nothing--but I would give every dollar of my fortune
rather than lose you. Does your wedding ring fit? Mine is all right."
"It ought to be--you had a chance to try yours on."
"I am a designing villain, Mary. While you were telling that story
last night, you will remember that I walked about the room. One of
your rings was on the mantelpiece and I tried it on."
When the clergyman handed Mrs. Sawyer the certificate, Quincy passed
him his fee.
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