Summer had gone long ago, but the sweetness of her passing yet lay upon the land and sea. The hills were glorious with a pageantry of scarlet and gold where, in the midnight silences, the soul of the woods had flamed in answer to the far, mysterious bugles of the frost. Bloom was on the grapes in the vineyard, and fairy lace, of cobweb fineness, had been hung by the secret spinners from stem to stem of the purple clusters and across bits of stubble in the field.

From the blue sea, now and then, came the breath of Winter, though Autumn lingered on the shore. Many of the people at the hotel had gone back to town, feeling the imperious call of the city with the first keen wind. Eloise, with a few others, waited. She expected to stay until Barbara was strong enough to go with her.

But Barbara's strength was coming very slowly now. She grieved for her father, and the grieving kept her back. Allan came down once a fortnight to spend Sunday with Eloise and to look after Barbara, though he realised that Barbara was, in a way, beyond his reach.

"She doesn't need medicine," he said, to Eloise. "She is perfectly well, physically, though of course her strength is limited and will be for some time to come. What she needs is happiness."

"That is what we all need," answered Eloise.

Allan flashed a quick glance at her. "Even I," he said, in a different tone, "but I must wait for mine."

"We all wait for things," she laughed, but the lovely colour had mounted to the roots of her hair that waved so softly back from her low forehead.

"When, dear?" insisted Allan, possessing himself of her hand.

"I promised once," she answered. "When the colour is all gone from the hills and the last leaves have fallen, then I'll come."

"You're not counting the oaks?" he asked, half fearfully. "Sometimes the oak leaves stay on all Winter, you know. And evergreens are ruled out, aren't they?"

"Certainly. We won't count the oaks or the Christmas trees. Long before Santa Claus comes, I'll be a sedate matron instead of a flyaway, frivolous spinster."

"For the first time since I grew up," remarked Allan, with evident sincerity, "I wish Christmas came earlier. Upon what day, fair lady, do you think the leaves will be gone?"

"In November, I suppose," she answered, with an affected indifference that did not deceive him. "The day after Thanksgiving, perhaps."

"That's Friday, and I positively refuse to be married on a Friday."

"Then the day before—that's Wednesday. You know the old rhyme says: 'Wednesday the best day of all.'"

So it was settled. Allan laughingly put down in his little red leather pocket diary, under the date of Wednesday, November twenty-fifth, "Miss Wynne's wedding." "Where is it to be?" he asked. "I wouldn't miss it for worlds."

"I've been thinking about that," said Eloise, slowly, after a pause. "I suppose we'll have to be conventional."

"Why?"

"Because everybody is."

"The very reason why we shouldn't be. This is our wedding, and we'll have it to please ourselves. It's probably our last."

"In spite of the advanced civilisation in which we live," she returned, "I hope and believe that it is the one and only wedding in which either of us will ever take a leading part."

"Haven't you ever had day-dreams, dear, about your wedding?"

"Many a time," she laughed. "I'd be the rankest kind of polygamist if I had all the kinds I've planned for."

"But the best kind?" he persisted. "Which is in the ascendant now?"

"If I could choose," she replied, thoughtfully, "I'd have it in some quiet little country church, on a brilliant, sunshiny day—the kind that makes your blood tingle and fills you with the joy of living. I'd like it to be Indian Summer, with gold and crimson leaves falling all through the woods. I'd like to have little brown birds chirping, and squirrels and chipmunks pattering through the leaves. I'd like to have the church almost in the heart of the woods, and have the sun stream into every nook and corner of it while we were being married. I'd like two taper lights at the altar, and the Episcopal service, but no music."

"Any crowd?"

Her sweet face grew very tender. "No," she said. "Nobody but our two selves."

"We'll have to have a minister," he reminded her, practically, "and two witnesses. Otherwise it isn't legal. Whom would you choose for witnesses?"

"I think I'd like to have Barbara and Roger. I don't know why, for I have so many other friends who mean more to me. Yet it seems, some way, as if they two belonged in the picture."

A bright idea came to Allan. "Dearest," he said, "you couldn't have the falling leaves and the squirrels if we waited until Thanksgiving time, but it's all here, right now. Don't you remember that little church in the woods that we passed the other day—the little white church with maples all around it and the Autumn leaves dropping silently through the still, warm air? Why not here—and now?"

"Oh, I couldn't," cried Eloise.

"Why not?"

"Oh, you're so stupid! Clothes and things! I've got a million things to do before I can be married decently."

He laughed at her woman's reason as he put his arms around her. "I want a wife, and not a Parisian wardrobe. You're lovelier to me right now in your white linen gown than you've ever been before. Don't wear yourself out with dressmakers and shopping. You'll have all the rest of your life for that."

"Won't I have all the rest of my life to get married in?" she queried, demurely.

"You have if you insist upon taking it, darling, but I feel very strongly to get married to-day."

"Not to-day," she demurred.

"Why not? It's only half past one and the ceremony doesn't last over twenty minutes. I suppose it can be cut down to fifteen or eighteen if you insist upon having it condensed. You don't even need to wash your face. Get your hat and come on."

His tone was tender, even pleading, but some far survival of Primitive Woman, whose marriage was by capture, stirred faintly in Eloise. "Our friends won't like it," she said, as a last excuse.

He noted, with joy, that she said "won't," instead of "wouldn't," but she did not realise that she had betrayed herself. "We don't care, do we?" he asked. "It's our wedding and nobody's else. When we can't please everybody, we might as well please ourselves. Matrimony is the one thing in the world that concerns nobody but the two who enter into it—and it's the thing that everybody has the most to say about. While you're putting on your hat, I'll get the license and see about a carriage."

"I thought I'd wait until Barbara could go to town with me," she said.

"There's nothing to hinder your coming back for her, if you want to and she isn't willing to come with Roger. I insist upon having my honeymoon alone."

"All alone? If I were very good, wouldn't you let me come along?"

Allan coloured. "You know what I mean," he said, softly. "I've waited so long, darling, and I think I've been patient. Isn't it time I was rewarded?"

They were on the beach, behind the friendly sand-dune that had been their trysting place all Summer. Thoroughly humble in her surrender, yet wholly womanly, Eloise put her soft arms around his neck. "I will," she said. "Kiss me for the last time before——"

"Before what?" demanded Allan, as, laughing, she extricated herself from his close embrace.

"Before you exchange your sweetheart for a wife."

"I'm not making any exchange. I'm only making my possession more secure. Look, dear."

He took from his pocket a shining golden circlet which exactly fitted the third finger of her left hand. Their initials were engraved inside. Only the date was lacking.

"I've had it for a long, long time," he said, in reply to her surprised question. "I hoped that some day I might find you in a yielding mood."

When she went up to her room, her heart was beating wildly. This sudden plunge into the unknown was blinding, even though she longed to make it. Having come to the edge of the precipice she feared the leap, in spite of the conviction that life-long happiness lay beyond.

In the fond sight of her lover, Eloise was very lovely when she went down in her white gown and hat, her eyes shining with the world-old joy that makes the old world new for those to whom it comes, be it soon or late.

"It's beautifully unconventional," she said, as he assisted her into the surrey. "No bridesmaids, no wedding presents, and no dreary round of entertainments. I believe I like it."

"I know I do," he responded, fervently. "You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen, sweetheart. Is that a new gown?"

"I've worn it all Summer," she laughed "and it's been washed over a dozen times. You have lots to learn about gowns."

"I'm a willing pupil," he announced. "Shouldn't you have a veil? I believe the bride's veil is usually 'of tulle, caught with a diamond star, the gift of the groom.'"

"You've been reading the society column. Give me the star, and I'll get the veil."

"You shall have it the first minute we get to town. I'd rob the Milky Way for you, if I could. I'd give you a handful of stars to play with and let you roll the sun and moon over the golf links."

"I may take the moon," she replied. "I've always liked the looks of it, but I'm afraid the sun would burn my fingers. Somebody once got into trouble, I believe, for trying to drive the chariot of the sun for a day. Give me the moon and just one star."

"Which star do you want?"

"The love-star," she answered, very softly. "Will you keep it shining for me, in spite of clouds and darkness?"

"Indeed I will."

The horses stopped at Barbara's door. Allan went across the street to call for Roger and Eloise went in to invite Barbara to go for a drive.

"How lovely you look," cried Barbara, in admiration. "You look like a bride."

"Make yourself look bridal also," suggested Eloise, flushing, "by putting on your best white gown. Roger is coming, too."

Barbara missed the point entirely. It did not take her long to get ready, and she sang happily to herself while she was dressing. She put a white lace scarf of her mother's over her golden hair, which was now piled high on her shapely head, and started out, for the first time in all her twenty-two years, for a journey beyond the limits of her own domain.

Allan and Roger helped her in. She was very awkward about it, and was sufficiently impressed with her awkwardness to offer a laughing apology. "I've never been in a carriage before," she said, "nor seen a train, nor even a church. All I've had is pictures and books—and Roger," she added, as an afterthought, when he took his place beside her on the back seat.

"You're going to see lots of things to-day that you never saw before," observed Allan, starting the horses toward the hill road. "We'll begin by showing you a church, and then a wedding."

"A wedding!" cried Barbara. "Who is going to be married?"

"We," he replied, concisely. "Don't you think it's time?"

"Isn't it sudden?" asked Roger. "I thought you weren't going to be married until almost Christmas."

"I've been serving time now for two years," explained Allan, "and she's given me two months off for good behaviour. Just remember, young man, when your turn comes, that nothing is sudden when you've been waiting for it all your life."

The door of the little white church was open and the sun that streamed through the door and the stained glass windows carried the glory and the radiance of Autumn into every nook and corner of it. At the altar burned two tall taper lights, and the young minister, in white vestments, was waiting.

The joking mood was still upon Allan and Eloise, but she requested in all seriousness that the word "obey" be omitted from the ceremony.

"Why?" asked the minister, gravely.

"Because I don't want to promise anything I don't intend to do."

"Put it in for me," suggested Allan, cheerfully. "I might as well promise, for I'll have to do it anyway."

Gradually, the hush and solemnity of the church banished the light mood. A new joy, deeper, and more lasting, took the place of laughter as they sat in the front pew, reading over the service. Barbara and Roger sat together, half way down to the door. Neither had spoken since they entered the church.

A shaft of golden light lay full upon Eloise's face. In that moment, before they went to the altar, Allan was afraid of her, she seemed so angelic, so unreal. But the minister was waiting, with his open book. "Come," said Allan, in a whisper, and she rose, smiling, to follow him, not only then, but always.

"Dearly Beloved," began the minister, "we are gathered here together in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony." He went on through the beautiful service, while the light streamed in, bearing its fairy freight of colour and gold, and the swift patter of the Little People of the Forest rustled through the drifting leaves.

It was all as Eloise had chosen, even to the two who sat far back, with their hands clasped, as wide-eyed as children before this sacred merging of two souls into one.

A little brown bird perched on the threshold, chirped a few questioning notes, then flew away to his own nest. Acorns fell from the oaks across the road, and the musical hum and whir of Autumn came faintly from the fields. The taper lights burned in the sunshine like yellow stars.

"That ye may so live together in this life," the minister was saying, "that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen."

It was over in an incredibly brief space of time. When they came down the aisle, Allan had the satisfied air of a man who has just emerged, triumphantly, through his own skill, from a very difficult and dangerous ordeal. Eloise was radiant, for her heart was singing within her a splendid strophe of joy.

When Barbara and Roger went to meet them, the strange, new shyness that had settled down upon them both effectually hindered conversation. Roger began an awkward little speech of congratulation, which immediately became inarticulate and ended in silent embarrassment.

But Allan wrung Roger's hand in a mighty grip that made him wince, and Eloise smiled, for she saw more than either of them had yet guessed. "You're kids," she said, fondly; "just dear, foolish kids." Impulsively, she kissed them both, then they all went out into the sunshine again.

The minister's eyes followed them with a certain wistfulness, for he was young, and, as yet, the great miracle had not come to him. He sighed when he put out the tapers and closed the door that divided him from the music of Autumn and one great, overwhelming joy.

On the way home, neither Barbara nor Roger spoke. They had nothing to say and the others were silent because they had so much. They left the two at Barbara's gate, then Allan turned the horses back to the hill road. They were to have two glorious, golden hours alone before taking the afternoon train.

Barbara and Roger watched them as they went slowly up the tawny road that trailed like a ribbon over the pageantry of the hill. When they came to the crossroads, where one road led to the church and the other into the boundless world beyond, Eloise leaned far out to wave a fluttering bit of white in farewell.

The carriage was now only a black speck on the brow of the hill. Presently it descended into the Autumn sunset and vanished altogether.

"I'm glad they asked us," said Roger.

"Wasn't it dear of them!" cried Barbara, with her face aglow. "Oh, Roger, if I ever have a wedding, I want it to be just like that!"