one in that hour and that he and she were henceforth a solemnized and consummated union.
Two hours later the wedding breakfast had been eaten and the gay reception was over. The guests, whose numbers had overflowed Strong House and sprinkled its lawns with picturesque color, were trying to congregate en masse upon the tiny dock which made connection between the Gilman gardens and lake transportation. A steam whistle had sounded, and the Gray Gull, Fay's private yacht, brave in new paint and with bright-work gleaming, was backing into the stream. While the breach between craft and dock slowly widened, the bride and groom appeared upon the deck, waving handkerchiefs and laughing happy derision at the showers of rice and the barrage of old shoes hurled so hilariously and so futilely after them.
In ten minutes the Gray Gull was far out on the lake. The last flutter of the bride's handkerchief had become indiscernible, and the last hoarse shout of the revelers on the dock had died away. For George and Fay the cruise of matrimony had begun—seemingly under the most favorable auspices in the world. The lake was calm, and the steady vibration of the engines sent a tremor through the Gray Gull's decks, a pulsing that to the happy young couple was like the blissful throb of life itself. There was
