The day that Winifred Barbour was married to George Carver was as beautiful as a day might be. The ceremony was performed in her own little home and was followed by a reception that lasted on toward the evening. Every gay gown in Patchogue had its chance for an airing on that gala day, but when evening shadows began to fall, the church bell rang, and every man and woman, to say nothing of the children, betook themselves to the church. A monster wedding supper, the inspiration of the townspeople acting in one accord, had been spread, and none would be denied admission.

It was Winifred's hour of triumph over her young lord and master, who, while subject to congratulations, came in for small glory. The fact that he was soon to depart with his bride for their new home in Riverhead failed to develop any medals for him.

"Why don't you quit that dead county seat town and stay here among us 'ristocrats," demanded Old Man Carmichel, gruffly, by way of gleaming daggers—then bursting out in wild guffaws, "Jes'ta take the feller off'n his feet."

But Carver had seen many such in his bright young life, and he likened them to the usual village "Jester," who started that way and kept it going to the end of his days. Nevertheless, it was Carver's night to be affable so he grinned quite good naturedly as he awaited the arrival of Henry Updyke and his big touring car. It was the one privilege the big fellow had demanded, since he could not attend the wedding—to see the bride safely to the door of her new home. And he had his reason for that, aside from its pleasure, for the event had been attended by much advance publicity, far greater than the prominence of the happy girl would ordinarily entitle her.

The New York papers gave mention of the forthcoming wedding in their last Sunday editions, and on the following Sabbath the "write ups" would be much extended, with a picture of the bride in the magazine sections.

Mary Johnson, Updyke's assistant, had seen to all that by personally making the rounds of Newspaper Row. A camera man, as if dropped from the clouds, seemed somewhat officious to the townspeople of Patchogue, when he posed the young couple on the steps of the church. Just how a young fellow with tripod and camera could halt with his hand a great host of people, and sweep them this way and that until they posed artistically about the bride and groom, was something to ponder on. In the doing of this there was some rivalry by way of holding one's own in "the limelight," but the camera was newfangled, and it revolved either way sufficiently to take in the most prominent of those in the wake of the bride—and much to the mystification of more than one person. It was Old Man Carmichel's turn to again become facetious.

"I'll be switched if I c'n see how they take pitchers with a contraption that won't stay put," said he, his eyes showing his mystification. "It must be broke, or somethin'."

"It's a movin' pitcher kodak—ain't you ever seen 'um before?" queried the man beside him.

"Yeh—I've seen 'um twicet as big," said Carmichel moving within range of the strange machine.

After depositing the Carvers at their new home Updyke refused the invitation to alight, but Winifred, the bride, would not have it so, and she caught up one of his big hands and called to her husband to help her.

"Just think, after all of the trouble I have caused you, now you refuse to take a little bit more, to see how George has busied himself of late," she pouted, playfully. "You've just got to or I'll jump up and kiss you before everybody passing by."

"Well, I don't want Mary's nose to get out of joint," said the big fellow, clambering down to the pavement.

"Mary!—Mary who?" she demanded, as with her husband on one side and herself on the other, they dragged him into the new cottage. There, with one poke of Carver's forefinger he touched a master button which set every light globe going from cellar to roof.

In the excitement of entering her new home for the first time, Winifred forgot the word "Mary" for quite a long time. The little place was yet to be furnished, and that was "Winifred's job," according to Carver, and meanwhile they would "put up" at "The White House," only a few blocks away. George's plans had been splendid, far better than she could have figured out for herself.

"What shall we call it?" she cried, enthusiastically. "Think up a good name for our new home, Mr. Updyke."

"The Gambler's Paradise," he replied soberly.

"You horrid thing—how could you think of such a name!" scolded Winifred.

"Well—didn't George take a big gamble when he waylaid Parkins? He might have been shot, you know."

"Oh, my darling George, come here and let me kiss you!" she demanded. "Wasn't he brave, Mr. Updyke?"

"All gamblers are brave as long as——"

"Now you stop teasing me, sir—make him stop George!" she urged, her face wreathed in smiles. "Just give me a name for our home—and be quick about it."

"Parkins' Waterloo," replied Updyke, his eyes filled with the Old Nick.

"Now George, you come forward and make this man behave," she demanded—"or shall I pull his hair?"

Then remembering something she had forgotten Winifred exclaimed—

"Tell me about Mary—who is she?"

"My right hand man," replied Updyke soberly.

"A man named Mary?—Oh!"

"Well she is more than a man—she's a woman with a level head, who runs my business and knows more about it than I do," replied Updyke without further indication of his attitude toward her.

"Then you'd better marry her at once or some one will come along and steal her, too!" warned the bride.

"If they do they'll have to take a chance they might regret. Mary is an officer of the law and amply able to protect herself," said the big fellow, knowingly.

"George Carver—look at this man! I declare, with all my feminine intuitions, that he is in love!"

Laughter, always a tonic, brought the red to Updyke's face when he saw that he had stumbled into the wrong kind of joking.

"He doesn't deny it, George. See that heightened color in his cheeks?" teased Winifred, her eyes sparkling.

"Well—I own up—just between the three of us, and to go no further," Updyke replied. "I haven't asked her yet."

"Then how do you know she will have you?" demanded Winifred, biting her lower lip in order to look solemn.

"The Updyke System will reach out and gather her in one of these days, when I get my courage to the boiling point," replied the big fellow, chuckling.

"Then you must start practicing at once," commanded Mrs. Carver, with the air of a matron of long time experience. "I want to go along when she shops for her trousseau. I've yet to see your little old New York," said she, dreamily, as memories came back to her mind.

"Come—jump in and I'll drive you over to 'The White House,'" ordered Updyke, noting her thoughtful attitude. "It's getting late for young married couples to be caught on the streets. There is a curfew law in Riverhead for brides and grooms. Seven thirty, and then the law swoops down!"

And when the happy pair were landed in front of the white painted hotel the big fellow whispered hoarsely—

"I'm going to bring Mary out to see you when you get settled. We'll come some Saturday, and you act as chaperon for a night. Next day we will run over to New York for a whole week while you help do her shopping. That's a go—eh—George?"

"Indeed it is," laughed Winifred, assuming command of the new ship of state. "But wouldn't it be wise to wait and see if she will have you?"

"By George, you're right; I hadn't thought of that. I'll ring her up the moment I get to my hotel," replied Updyke.

"Why not use long distance?" suggested Winifred. "Then George can stand near and coach you. I assure you he is good at it."

"Not much!" exploded Updyke, as he set the starter going. "When I tell Mary, there will be no freshly married people around."

As the long nosed roadster threaded its way along Main Street the Carvers stood watching until its red tail lights faded from view. Thus the happiest day of their lives had merged into night.

On reaching the second floor of The White House, the bride enquired about the hour.

"Just seven twenty-eight," replied Carver, consulting his watch.

"Then 'curfew shall not ring to-night,' as we have two minutes to spare," laughed the bride, closing the door softly behind them.

On reaching New York Updyke immediately rang up the home where Mary Johnson lived and "switchboard" promptly responded.

"Updyke calling," said he, gruffly.

"Miss Johnson is waiting to hear from you—something important I believe," said the girl, who always watched out for his interests.

"Put her on, Miss Daisy," said Updyke, "and don't listen in," he warned, as one who knew about her girl-like curiosity. "This you, Miss Johnson—how's everything?"

"Bad news from South Bay," said she, meaning Dreamy Hollow. "News from Patchogue caused a severe spell of anesthesia. Doctor Benton is staying there over night—also Mr. Sawyer."

"Does he recognize them?"

"They do not know, but think it doubtful. At one time he said—'tell Parkins'—and at another, some hours later, he mumbled incoherently about 'the church' being 'too crowded.' 'I've been puzzled over the words 'tell Parkins'—what do you make of that?" queried the secretary.

"Nothing important," replied Updyke—"just vagaries of the mind. He'll get over it in a day or two. Perhaps his words 'the church' signified a hazy recollection of the wedding held there to-day. The camera man shot a lot of pictures. Better hold on to some of the proofs for the gallery," laughed Updyke.

"The Updyke gallery?—never! You may have one for your private office," said the secretary, after a pause.

"Old stingy—always keeping down expenses, eh? Proofs only cost a dollar apiece—good ones, I mean. Spoils, only a quarter. I presume I'll get one of the spoils," laughed the big fellow.

"If you talk that way, I'll keep all of them," bantered Mary Johnson. "Where are they now?"

"What—the pictures?"

"No—the happy couple?"

"Asleep—I guess," replied Updyke, blandly.

"You are quite impossible, after your long ride all by yourself. I believe you are jealous of George."

"No, you are wrong, Mary. It's not him, much as I admire his wife."

"Who else could it be?" giggled Mary.

"Now you are asking questions! What is the name of the photographer you sent out to Patchogue?"

"Oh, a queer sort of name!—Pelletier, or something. He does all our work, and for most of the newspapers. I had him go out personally, instead of sending some horrid assistant."

"Well, he is the man who excites my jealousy," said Updyke, sharply.

"Impossible! I didn't know you were acquainted," replied Mary Johnson, in a surprised tone.

"Nevertheless it's him," replied the big fellow, in a positive tone of voice.

"What reason have you to be jealous of that little simp?" laughed the secretary.

"Well, he kept saying she wants this, and she wants that, and she wants one taken on the steps of the church, and one as they get into the automobile, and so on," replied Updyke.

"Why did that disturb you?"

"I found out who the She was that he talked of so glibly."

"Who was she?" persisted Mary Johnson.

"Why—can't you guess, after all the hints I've made?"

"No, I'm still in the dark."

"He meant you, of course, and he seemed so familiar. Knew precisely what you wanted, and aired himself importantly," growled the big fellow.

"But what had that to do with you, I wonder? You left the matter in my hands."

"Quite so, my dear, and that's what makes me jealous. The fellow talked so much about you I feared there must be a strong attachment, or——"

"Now that will be quite enough!" said Mary Johnson, as if offended. "I think it's time to——"

"No, Mary don't do that. I'm in real deadly earnest about—you know what I mean—now don't you?" appealed the big fellow.

"It begins to dawn on me. After this long conversation I feel that I have been unusually dense. Your moonlight ride all by yourself must have gone to your head," giggled the secretary.

"Nevertheless I mean every word I have said, Mary. I want you—I must have you, Mary," said Updyke, a note of strong appeal in his voice. "I've known it a long time but I could not make myself believe that I had a chance. You are so young and pretty, and I am so old and ugly, and——"

"Why you are not old at forty-one!" exclaimed Mary Johnson, forgetting that she was listening to an avowal. "And as for being ugly, I'd say that your rugged face denotes character, which is far more worthwhile than being good looking. But why do you tell me all this over the telephone? Weren't you brave enough to say it to my face?"

"No, coward that I am—I just couldn't," sighed Updyke so loudly that Mary Johnson heard it over the wire.

Then came a pause, a very long one, each expecting the next word to come from the other. Finally, the softly modulated voice of Mary Johnson came into the Updyke ear.

"Why not call with your car to-morrow evening, then we can talk more freely," she suggested. "Am I never to ride in that big machine?"

"I always knew you were the brains of the business, Mary. It's no wonder that——"

"Don't say it over the wire," warned Mary. "I'd rather hear it more directly."

"Then be ready at seven, my——"

"Never mind—careful what you say—some one listening in," said she as both heard the guilty click of the switchboard. "Au revoir—I'll be ready at seven, but I will not go to the office to-morrow."

"No—and when Miss Carew returns, you will come and go as you please," said he, as she answered "Good night."

Then the big fellow hung up the receiver.

With mind filled with happy thoughts, Henry Updyke, fatigued by eighteen hours of constant activity, turned doggedly back to the telephone and asked connection with Dreamy Hollow, Villard's strange condition gave him a queer feeling of unrest. The big fellow felt that he had experienced more kinds of ups and downs during the past few months than for any period of his life. With joy on one lobe of his brain and dread on the other, he found himself halting between going ahead or going to bed. But the long tingle of the phone bell brought him back to attention, as Mrs. Bond's voice came over the wire.

"How's Mr. Villard?" he inquired.

"About the same, sir. His mind is just as it has been since——"

"Yes, I am fearful of the consequences. Any change in his actions?"

"About the same. He lives with the stars, and has no word for any of us—just oblivious to everything about him. Two specialists from the city were here to-day with Dr. Benton. Something about lesions that interfere with the brain," answered Mrs. Bond.

"Any talk of an operation?"

"I believe so, but the doctors are not agreed. Doctor Benton declares that no operation will take place with his consent. If outvoted, he says that he will turn the case over and quit. That would be terrible, wouldn't it?"

"Yes—more than that, it would be sinful. I'll give him a ring on the phone to-morrow. Lesions practically mean incipient paresis, and sometimes lobes form that are even more dangerous. Without criticising the life he leads, which is sedentary, Mr. Villard could have saved himself from the dreadful state he is in. An active, out-of-door life for a man of his build was positively necessary. And he should never have given up his daily habit of attending to business. It is the soft life that kills," concluded Updyke vehemently.

"I know you are right. Fat people like me have to keep going and continually diet, or they fall suddenly never to rise again," replied the housekeeper.

"How about his mail? More of it coming in?"

"Yes, great heaps of letters. You never saw the like."

"I'll have them delivered to his town office, hereafter," said Updyke. "I can't spare the time to run down there to read them. I'm too busy just now."

"Very well, Mr. Updyke, good night, sir," said Mrs. Bond, and with that off his mind the big fellow turned in for the night.