A June morning.

The sky, this morning, is the bluest blue; the air delicious. There is fragrance in it, of buds, new grass and flowers. Also, in the air, is the joy of living, and the promise of even better things to come.

But Ruth Heywood, sitting upon the front door step of her father's house, seemed oblivious to the surrounding rapture. Her thoughts were solemn. Half an hour ago she had witnessed a marriage in her own parlor. Her father, a clergyman, had united two lovers in the bonds of matrimony. The ceremony had deeply impressed the youthful witness, curled up in the big arm chair near the window. And after the departure of the happy couple she had been still further, and yet more deeply impressed, by her father's explanation of what the ceremony meant. Now, sitting in the sunshine on the front steps, her youthful mind was struggling with the marriage problem. It certainly seemed a grand idea, this bringing together of a man and woman to love each other dearly all the rest of their lives, with no drawback, and to make each other supremely happy, not only in this life but in the life to come. The more she thought and the deeper she went into this inviting subject the better she liked it. And she wondered why anybody should delay an hour before entering the holy state.

From this maiden dream of everlasting bliss she was gently awakened by peculiar sounds. These sounds came from the lips of a jubilant boy, dancing along the center of the street. If explanation were necessary the sounds might be interpreted as a song of praise to the Creator for producing such a perfect day in such a wondrous world. To further emphasize the joy of living the boy's arms were swinging above his head and his eyes were heavenward. He wore a blue and white checkered shirt-waist, brown knickers, stockings of the same color and copper-toed shoes. His hat, being a nuisance, had been left at home.

With him was a dog. And the dog, even more than his master, seemed intoxicated with present conditions. The fact of being alive had stirred him to a wild activity. At dazzling speed he was describing circles about the size of a circus ring around the singing boy. He traveled like a thing possessed and with a velocity somewhat faster than a shooting star. And the eyes of Ruth Heywood, although young and active, blinked as they tried to follow him.

She called.

"Drowsy!"

Cyrus stopped, turned about and made a sweeping bow. When he straightened up the maiden beckoned, and said, "Come here."

As he seated himself beside her, she asked:

"Were you ever married, Cyrus?"

For an instant the boy was taken aback. As he turned and looked into the maiden's eyes, ready to carry on the joke, he saw those eyes were more than serious: they were almost tragic in their earnestness.

"Why, of course not! I'm too young."

"No, nobody is too young. It's a lovely, beautiful thing and everybody ought to do it."

Cyrus was clearly surprised; but, always polite to ladies, he nodded his appreciation of the new truth. "I didn't know. I thought only grown folks got married."

"No; it is everybody's duty. And it's my duty and yours, too."

Cyrus' eyebrows went up. "Me? Mine?"

"Yes. It's a beautiful thing and makes us all better. Father says so."

"Did he say children, too?"

Ruth hesitated. "He—he—said it makes everybody better—more unselfish—and of course he meant nobody is too young to be made better."

Cyrus nodded. "I s'pose that's so."

"And I want to marry you," said Ruth.

Cyrus nodded. "I'm ready, if it's a good thing."

"It's a lovely thing."

"What's the kind of good that it does?"

"It makes us better."

"Yes, but—but in what ways is a feller better?"

"Oh, in every way."

"Can he play ball any better?"

"I guess so."

"Is a married feller stronger and can he run faster than the feller that isn't married?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, that's a good deal. Does it take long to have it done?"

"Just a few minutes."

As a new suspicion entered the mind of the prospective groom he edged away a few inches. "Does it hurt?"

"What hurt?"

"Getting married. Does a dentist do it—or something like that?"

Contemptuously the maiden answered. "'Course not! You are a very ignorant boy. We just stand up before father and say 'I will,' and 'Yes' and 'It is' or 'I do' and short things like that. Father does all the rest."

Then Ruth explained the ceremony, and described minutely the scene she had witnessed an hour ago in her own home.

"That's easy enough," said Cyrus. "Anybody can say those things."

"Everybody does it," said Ruth.

Cyrus smiled; it seemed a smile of relief. "That's funny. I'd always thought being married was kind of important, and kind of—kind of—lasted a mighty long time."

"It does. It lasts forever. That is why it is so beautiful and lovely. Everybody is better forever and ever."

Cyrus frowned. "I don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"I don't like the—the long time. S'pose we got enough of it. We'd have to keep on just the same."

"Oh, Cyrus! Would you get tired of me?"

"No, 'course not! Nobody could ever do that! But s'pose I died in a few days, would you have to be married all the rest of your life to a dead boy?"

"Yes, and I would be very faithful to your memory. I would never marry anybody else and I would put lovely flowers on your grave every day."

"Ho! I don't believe that!"

"Yes I would!"

Cyrus put both hands on his knees, stiffened his arms, straightened up and drew a long breath of the morning air. "Anyway, I'd rather be alive."

"Of course you would! So would almost anybody for a time. But you are very silly and ignorant if you think being married is going to kill you."

"'Course I don't!"

"Then you mustn't say such things."

"I guess I only just meant that if I was married I'd rather be alive than dead. But what do we have to do after we are married?"

"Oh, everything—just what other folks do, of course."

"And what's that?"

"Why—sit opposite each other at breakfast, go around together, and own things together, and have the same pew at church. You at one end and me at the other, with our children between us."

Cyrus frowned. "Our children?"

Ruth nodded.

"But I never heard of a boy eight years old having real children."

Ruth closed her eyes in solemn meditation. Cyrus, after waiting in vain for an answer said, with a laugh: "Think of me with real children, p'r'aps biggern I am! They could lick me in a fight." And he laughed. "That is funny, isn't it?" And he gave her arm a shake, as if to wake her up.

At the sound of laughter Zac, sitting on the step below, cocked his ears, wagged his tail and sidled up closer to Cyrus, who reached forward, gathered up the loose skin at the back of Zac's neck and gave him a friendly shake.

"Anyway," said Ruth, "everybody ought to get married. Your father and mother and my father and mother were all married."

"Yes, I s'pose they were."

"Of course they were. They would be ashamed not to. All good and wise people marry. Why, King Solomon, who was wiser than anybody, had seven hundred wives."

"How many?"

"Seven hundred."

"Seven hundred! Oh, get out!"

"But he did!"

"Seven hundred, all alive at once?"

"Yes."

"Jimminy! That seems an awful lot for one man, doesn't it?"

Ruth confessed that it did.

"Nobody in Longfields has more than one, have they?"

Ruth mentioned several citizens, but could recall none who had more than one wife.

"If one," said Cyrus, "is enough for men around here, why should your Solomon need seven hundred?"

"I don't know. Perhaps the Bible tells."

"P'r'aps," said Cyrus, "he was homely or mean or something like that, and instead of one good one he had to take seven hundred bad ones."

"No, I don't believe it was that."

Cyrus reflected a moment. "P'r'aps they were all mighty good and there being so many of 'em was what made Solomon so wise."

"I shouldn't wonder."

There came a silence. Then Cyrus straightened up and spoke with emphasis. "I just don't believe he or anybody else had seven hundred wives. It's too many. It isn't likely, somehow. No feller would want that much."

"Why, Cyrus Alton! Don't you believe what the Bible says?"

"Yes—I—I—'course I believe it if you and the Bible both say so, but seven hundred does seem a mighty big lot." Then, as he looked away, over the common, his eyes rested on two persons who stood talking together across the way, and he asked:

"Were Solomon's wives real live women like Mrs. Strong and Mrs. Clapp, over there?"

"Of course they were!"

Cyrus closed his eyes. But through his ears came the thin, far reaching, nasal voice of Mrs. Clapp. "Did seven hundred women like that sit around the breakfast table with Solomon every morning?"

"I s'pose they did."

For an instant Cyrus faltered. He lowered his eyes and studied his shoes with the copper toes. There might be a darker side to matrimony, a noisier, less peaceful side, than Ruth had pictured. But, as he turned and looked at his companion, it came upon him, like a ray of sunshine that a hundred Ruths would be, oh, so very different from a hundred Mrs. Clapps!

"Did all those wives," he asked, "sit with Solomon in one pew on Sunday?"

Ruth made no answer.

"Doesn't the Bible say anything about that?"

"I don't remember."

"Well, if they did, I say he must have had a mighty long pew. Do you s'pose they all slept in the same bed?"

"Perhaps."

Cyrus laughed. "Seven hundred wives in one bed! Cracky! I guess old Solomon slept on the floor!"

He turned and smiled into the girl's face. But he saw no mirth, only surprise and disapproval as the lovely eyes looked into his own. He was learning his first lesson in the noble art of suppressing humor in the presence of humorous things when taken seriously. And he blushed at his own frivolity. Moreover, his sympathy for the much married Solomon did not weaken his allegiance to the girl beside him. There was, to be sure, a peculiar excitement in the idea of sitting at breakfast with seven hundred Ruths entirely his own. Yet, somehow, the vision daunted him. Even the vision of a hundred Ruths, all just alike, filled him with a kind of awe—an awe of more things than he could ever live up to. Seeking courage and consolation, he looked down into the face of Zac as a companion more like himself—on a lower spiritual plane. Zac, still sitting in front of them, always looking earnestly into the face of whoever was speaking, appeared interested in the conversation. Cyrus stroked his head, then stood up.

"Let's go ahead with this marrying, if you say so. But where's the fun of it?"

"Oh, in doing such a beautiful thing—and being better."

"There's no great fun in being better. We are good enough already."

"Oh, Cyrus! Nobody is good enough already except our fathers and mothers and ministers."

Ruth's manner was solemn. The responsibility of the enterprise seemed to rest entirely on her own shoulders. While she was deciding, with far away look, on the next step, Cyrus said:

"There's a big circus picture on Mr. Wade's barn, just stuck up this morning. It has a great big tiger crawling up an elephant, and soldiers fighting Indians, all big, in splendid colors! Come over and see it."

Ruth frowned. In her very pretty eyes, as she turned them in sadness on the prospective groom, was pity—the almost tearful yet contemptuous pity with which Wisdom looks on Folly.

"Cyrus, you are just a boy. You don't understand things."

"Don't understand what things?"

"How important this marriage is."

"Oh, that's all right. I'm ready. Let's go ahead now and have it over with. What do we do first?"

"We must go in to father and ask him to marry us, just as he did those people this morning."

"All right. Come along."

As the two children entered the house, Zac with a bark of joy bounced into the hall ahead of them. It was a loud bark, a piercing, youthful bark, that might disturb a dozen clergymen if working on their sermons.

Ruth stopped. "Hush, you horrid dog!"

"Zac, shut up!" said Cyrus. "Go back, and stay on the porch."

But Zac preferred to accompany the expedition. Without openly refusing to obey, he merely bounced about, just out of reach, wagged his tail and smiled in the faces of the bride and groom.

"Shall we let him come?" said Cyrus.

Ruth hesitated, but only for an instant. "No. A dog barking at a wedding would be unreligious."

So Cyrus, by pleadings, threats and gentle force induced his more worldly comrade to remain without. But he said good-by to him as he turned away. For, in parting with this bachelor friend, he may have had feelings in common with other matrimonial heroes when marching to the altar.

Meanwhile, the Rev. George Bentley Heywood, father of the prospective bride, stood at the west window of his study. His thoughts were far away. In his hand was a letter from a friend in China. This friend, a missionary, had presented, in eloquent and convincing words, the various joys, spiritual, material and social that attended the servant of God when converting the heathen of the Orient.

Mr. Heywood's imagination had responded to the winged words and was already disporting itself in the Chinese vineyard. There had been other letters, all with the same message. And, now, standing at the window with the letter in his hand, he was thinking, and thinking hard, over the most important decision of his life.

Mr. Heywood was a serious man. Upon his person lay no superfluous flesh. His face, otherwise severe, was tempered by the eyes of a poet—eyes of a gentle, somewhat solemn beauty. They were pleasant to look into. Ruth had inherited these eyes, and in her childish face they shone with an added beauty. They were dreamy eyes, a soft brown-black with blacker lashes, and either tragic or mirthful, as occasion called.

When the study door opened—with no preliminary knock—there was annoyance in the clergyman's manner as his eyes turned toward the intruder. This time there were two intruders,—Cyrus and his fiancÉe. Mr. Heywood frowned when the two small people advanced to the center of the room. He was in no mood for answering children's questions. But, as he frowned, Cyrus bowed—one of his best and most elaborate efforts, bringing the heel of one foot against the instep of the other, all with a gracious, sweeping salutation of his free hand—the one that was not leading Ruth. It was the greeting of one gentleman of the old school to another, of deference and good wishes. Mr. Heywood, partly, perhaps, from his thoughts being in China, found himself also bowing deferentially, as if to some exalted and venerable person. Suddenly realizing the absurdity of such an obeisance he straightened up and frowned again. Then he spoke more harshly than if he had not blundered into such a foolish action.

"Well, children, what is it?"

Cyrus spoke. "We have come to get married."

"Who?"

"We. We—us."

"What do you mean?"

"Ruth and I want to get married."

Mr. Heywood frowned again and blinked, as if to summon his wandering wits, undecided whether to believe or doubt his eyes and ears. His thoughts, barely returned from China, seemed unequal to a sudden grasp of the situation.

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying that Ruth and I want to get married."

"Whose idea is this?"

"Mine," said Ruth.

As the father met the earnest eyes of his daughter he almost smiled.

"Where did you get such an idea, Ruth?"

"From seeing the people you married this morning. You said marriage was a beautiful thing."

"So it is. So it is. But that was very different. Only grown people marry, so run away, children. I have no time for play this morning." And he turned away and sat down at his desk.

"But, Mr. Heywood," said Cyrus, "this is not play. This is important."

"Important? Why important, Cyrus?"

"'Cause Ruth wants it."

This time Mr. Heywood smiled. "That's a good sentiment, Cyrus. It shows a kind regard for the lady. But run away, both of you. I am very busy this morning."

"But, Mr. Heywood," said Cyrus, "what's Ruth done that she should be punished and not have what she wants, and wants ever so much?"

"How punished?"

"By not getting what she wants."

"And what do you say she wants?"

"Me."

The father laughed. "Oh, it's you she wants, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Heywood drew a hand slowly across his mouth as he looked inquiringly at Ruth.

Ruth smiled and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Her father also nodded as in polite recognition of her wishes. Turning to Cyrus, he inquired, "What are you going to live on? What is going to be your business?"

"I'm going to be a discoverer, like Columbus."

"I am afraid there won't be much left to discover by the time you are a man—not on this earth, at least. The big continents are already discovered."

"But there will be new countries at the bottom of the sea, and under the earth and on the moon, and such places."

"On such places! Dear me, Cyrus, do you think of taking your wife to the moon?"

"Yes, sir."

"But how will you be supporting Ruth all that time? A husband should be earning money."

"Oh, that part'll be all right! I'm going to be a train robber."

"A train robber!"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Heywood whistled softly and looked at his daughter. "Well—now—is that a nice business, Ruth, for a model husband? Do you want to marry a train robber?"

Ruth smiled and nodded. "Yes, I shall always like Cyrus and whatever he does."

"But suppose Cyrus is imprisoned for life, or hanged, as often happens to train robbers?"

Cyrus interrupted, and spoke contemptuously. "No, I shan't be that kind! It's only the stupid ones that's caught!"

Mr. Heywood closed his eyes for a moment and appeared to be thinking it over. "Of course, it's possible,—just possible, that you may change your mind as you get older."

"No, sir. 'Cause a man gets lots of money that way and gets it quick and easy. And there'll be jewelry, too. I shall give the jewelry to Ruth."

"And I," said Ruth, "shall give lots of it to mother. Mother likes jewelry."

"Yes," said Mr. Heywood, "most women do. But isn't stolen jewelry a little——"

Again Cyrus interrupted. "But that won't be stolen jewelry. When you steal anything you get it when the other feller isn't looking—kind of sneakin'. I shall take it right before their faces."

"Yes, but you threaten to kill them if they resist. That's robbery, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, but robbery isn't like stealing. It's more—more—it's braver."

"Braver? Possibly. And you really consider robbery an honorable business?"

"Oh, yes."

"And I can help him," said Ruth; "we would work together."

Mr. Heywood looked from the cherubic lips of the groom into the clear eyes of his superlatively conscientious little daughter and murmured: "Yes, you would be of great assistance." Then, after a pause:

"Now, Cyrus, you and Ruth come to me twenty years hence and if we are all alive and Ruth still wants you I have no doubt we can arrange a wedding."

"Twenty years!" exclaimed Ruth. "Why, father, we shall all be dead!"

"Oh, no! I trust not."

"Or too old—too awful old!"

"No, indeed! You will be twenty-seven. Call it fourteen years, then you will be only twenty-one."

"But," said Cyrus, "we may forget all about it in fourteen years."

"Then it will be no disappointment to you if you can't marry. But run along now, children, I have no more time for you." He spoke with such decision as he began reading the letter in his hand that the unmarried couple turned about and slowly vanished.

When they passed out into the open air, a stranger might have thought, from the manner in which Zac bounced with joy and lifted up his voice, that Cyrus was emerging from the Valley of the Shadow of Death. As they stood again on the porch, the corners of Ruth's mouth were drooping. There were tears in her irresistible eyes. Cyrus laid his hands on her shoulders.

"Now don't you feel bad, Ruthy. If you want to be married, we just will."

The maiden shook her head. "He said not."

"No, he didn't. He only said he was busy."

"He said only grown people got married."

"But he didn't say children couldn't if they wanted to."

In the maiden's face came a brighter look. "Yes, that is true, isn't it?"

"'Course it is! And we will be doing something new and different. It makes folks famous to be the first to do things. Look at Christopher Columbus, and look at Benjamin Franklin, the first man to fly a kite and steer lightnin' and make it mind him."

"Was he married when he was a child?"

"Nobody knows. But if you and I are the first children to get married—the very first, why our pictures might be in history books."

Ruth laughed. "That would be funny, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, wouldn't it! And under it would be printed Mr. and Mrs. Ruth Heywood."

"Oh, no! It would be Mr. and Mrs. Cyrus Alton. It's always that way."

"Then we'll be the first ones to do it the new way. We needn't do just like everybody else. But who's going to wait fourteen years. Not us! If your father is too busy to do it, we'll get somebody else."

"Who?"

"I dunno." And he looked away toward the common and became thoughtful.

Now Cyrus' ideas of matrimony were vague, and impersonal. As a game it had never interested him. He had given it no attention. On some other subject he had definite views—such as war, baseball, voyages of discovery, balloons, maple sugar, battleships and the different kinds of ice cream. But this marriage business, now that Ruth wanted it, had suddenly become important. And when Ruth really wanted a thing he felt that reason, religion and the Laws of Man and Nature should stand aside. Moreover, Cyrus was no quitter. He was not of those who are easily discouraged. Persistence, the sort that stiffens in disaster, was one of his dominant traits. A precious gift on occasions; but there were times, in the bosom of his own family, when it was not admired. As guides to character the drowsy eyes and cherubic mouth were, in this particular, misleading. Behind them lay the tenacity of purpose which so often transforms defeat into victory. In this present emergency there seemed to him especial demand for achievement. Ruth wanted something and when Ruth wanted something it was not for him, nor for others, to reason why.

So now, while the bride, crushed to earth, was mourning the downfall of a high endeavor, her companion had not accepted defeat. With roving eyes and tight shut mouth he was seeking some other road to victory.

Inspiration came.

Seeing no road to victory, up or down the village street, his eyes turned heavenward. As they rested on the spire of the Unitarian church, just across the way, there came an answer to his appeal. It came through the open windows of the church—the notes of an organ. He turned and seized his fiancÉe by an arm.

"Ruth! Listen!"

"To what?"

"To that music! It's Horace Phillips practising on the organ!"

Ruth nodded in acknowledgment of the fact, but she saw no relation between the music and their late rebuff.

"We can go right over there and get married," said Cyrus. "It doesn't matter who does it so long as it is in a church and there's music."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course! Ask anybody."

There was nobody to ask, so he took her by the hand and started forward. She held back. He pulled harder. "Come along. There's the church all open; and the organ playing. It's just the place to be married."

She yielded. "But there's no minister to do it."

"That don't make any difference. As long as we are married in a church with music, anybody can do it."

He spoke with authority—the kind that carries conviction and puts an end to controversy.

As they started, however, she again held back, and exclaimed, in a final despair, "Oh, I forgot!"

"Forgot what?"

"The ring. We have to have a ring."

"What's the use of a ring?"

"Nobody is married without a ring. The man puts a ring on the woman's finger and says things."

"Well—I can say the things and we'll just play there's a ring."

"No."

"Oh, come along!"

"No."

Now Cyrus had become interested in this business. He felt a pride in carrying it through. To fail now would be disgrace. In vexation he raised his right hand—the one not holding Ruth's—and thrust its thumb between his teeth. On that hand something glistened.

"Why, there's a ring!" exclaimed Ruth, "right on your finger! Isn't it lucky."

Cyrus regarded the little silver band.

Ruth repeated: "Isn't it lucky!"

Cyrus hesitated. "Do I have to give it to you?"

"Yes."

"For you to keep and not give back?"

"Yes, of course!"

"But Henry Wheelock made it for me out of a ten-cent piece. I've only had it a little while."

"Oh, Cyrus! Would you be so mean as that?"

"I'm not mean! You know I'm not mean! Henry Wheelock made it out of my own ten-cent piece and I—I—don't want to lose it."

A look of sorrow in Ruth's eyes suddenly changed to contempt. "Then keep your old ring! I'm sure I don't want it." And she pulled away the hand that was in his, wheeled about and started to reËnter the house. But Cyrus caught her by the arm.

"Oh, that's all right, Ruthy! You shall have it. Come. Don't let's fight."

So began this lovers' quarrel. But as often happens, the male of the species besought and appealed, apologized, promised everything, acknowledged guilt and sufficiently humbled himself until Sweet Peace returned. Then all was forgiven, and a second time they started for the church. Zac brought up the rear.

On the church steps sat Luther Dean and the New Boy. The New Boy had lived in Longfields only a few weeks. He differed, in many ways, from the other boys of the village. He was blasÉ, and older in his feelings; he came from a larger town and had seen more of the world. His tendency, now,—natural, perhaps, but unrepressed—was to despise more simple people. He gave the impression among still younger boys of having crowded into his ten years of life a red career of war and piracy, of wild adventure, of reckless deeds and thrilling escapes. These experiences were rather suggested than described, always in a casual off-hand way, calmly and without excitement, in a voice and manner tempered by the wisdom of the ages. And his eyes, light blue and frigidly serene, moved slowly from one listener to another in a weary but patient condescension. His usual haunts, it appeared, were the upper ether, and the deep sea, the caÑon and the prairie, the impenetrable forest, the decks of battleships and fields of carnage.

As the bridal couple approached the steps, Cyrus called to Luther Dean and beckoned to him. Luther came forward. So also did the New Boy—the Budding Outlaw—although he was not invited; and his presence embarrassed Cyrus, for this was a private business, in a sense, and not for the general public. Besides, Cyrus did not like the New Boy. However, he braced up and put on a careless front.

"We want you to marry us, Luther, now, here in the church."

Luther frowned, then smiled. "Me? Marry?"

"Yes, marry us—Ruth and me."

"Golly! I—I—never married anybody."

"That don't matter. Anybody can do it."

"But I'm too young. It takes a man."

"No, it doesn't. Ruth can tell you what to say. It's all easy. Come along."

They entered the church; but Zac, like many of his kind, was unpleasantly affected by music, so he remained outside.

Up the main aisle they started, Luther in front, the bride and groom behind, holding hands. In the gallery above Horace Phillips was practising various tunes, and the voice of the great organ filled the church. To the bride and groom, both lovers of music, the notes of the organ seemed more impressive than ever in the now empty building.

But the wedding procession had barely started up the aisle when the ceremonies were rudely interrupted. The Budding Outlaw, smarting perhaps at being ignored, followed close behind and yielded to a vengeful impulse. Ruth's hair, gathered by a ribbon behind her head, was flowing down her back like a golden mane. The Budding Outlaw reached forth and seized a handful, then gave it a violent jerk, as if driving a horse, and he said,

"Hi there! Giddap; giddap!"

Ruth cried aloud in pain, "Stop it! Oh, stop it! It hurts!"

She could not turn her head, but raised her hands in vain efforts at protection.

Cyrus wheeled about. "Let go that hair!"

And he scowled in anger at the aggressor. But the aggressor merely renewed the twitchings with: "Giddap hossey. Giddap."

"Let go that hair," once more said Cyrus.

The Budding Outlaw, for answer, twitched the golden hair again, and harder than before. As Ruth in helpless agony was still raising her hands to her head, Cyrus aimed a blow at the Budding Outlaw and hit him in the face. But the Budding Outlaw was one year older and one year bigger than Cyrus, and twenty years cooler, more cynical and more blasÉ. So, without even loosening his hold on the bride's hair, he struck out with his free hand and landed full on Cyrus's mouth. The blow was so well directed that the recipient staggered back and stood for a second or two as if dazed. On the Budding Outlaw's face was a smile of easy victory—and contempt. Cyrus saw it. In Ruth's face he saw torture and helpless anger. Then he threw himself again at the enemy. And again the enemy without loosening his left-hand clutch on the golden hair, sent his fist against the approaching face, landing full on its nose and followed it by a sudden push. Cyrus staggered back across the aisle and leaned against the nearest pew. He blinked, and drew a hand across his bleeding mouth. His nose seemed—to him—about twice its usual size and rapidly growing bigger. Then Ruth, forgetting her own pain, cried out:

"Oh, Luther, Luther! Help Cyrus!"

But, either from wisdom or some other reason, Luther refrained from interfering. He looked at Ruth, then down at the floor, then up again at the Budding Outlaw, now terrible in his easy triumph. Ruth called again to him, yet more urgent—a passionate appeal for help. It was the cry of one old playmate to another, for the rescue of a bosom friend. But the organ above was pouring forth its music and Luther turned away, pretending not to hear the cry.

Cyrus, during this moment's lull, did some rapid thinking. He saw the folly of his previous attacks. So, as Ruth was uttering her second appeal to his lukewarm friend, he advanced again, but more slowly than before, ducked his head and dodged a blow, then jumped, and closed with the enemy. And to the Budding Outlaw it seemed as if a dozen boys were on him. Blows rained upon his face. Copper toed shoes were hammering, with the rage of demons, against his sensitive shins. He let go the maiden's hair, as all his hands were none too many for this peaceable boy now suddenly transformed into a reckless and bloodthirsty athlete. He could not reach Cyrus's face, as that face, for protection, was pressed close against the Outlaw's own chest. And when, at last, he got both hands against Cyrus's face and body to push him off he felt ten fingers tighten about his throat with a grip that scared him. For now, as the two iron thumbs were pressing his windpipe with murderous power, he realized that this boy was fighting with the fury and the strength of those who fight for victory or for death. He gurgled, gasped, pulled Cyrus's hair and beat wildly at his head. But when a man is fighting for the woman of his choice—or for any other holy cause—he has the strength of many. So with Cyrus. The tearing of his hair, the blows upon his head and face and body were as summer zephyrs. For him, at the moment, death could have no terrors. He was in this struggle for victory or annihilation.

No boy can live without breathing, and the Budding Outlaw's strength was going. Cyrus forced him to the floor. Then, knowing nothing of the Rules of the Ring, he hammered him in the face and jammed his knees into his stomach, as if to kill.

At last, after a final blow and jab and kick, he climbed to his feet, stepped back and looked down at him. Ruth seized him by an arm and tried to drag him from the church.

"Come! Come quick, before he gets up!"

But a change had come over the once peaceful groom. The lust of battle was in him. He paid no attention to her words. Breathing hard, with bruises on his face, his lips bleeding, he beckoned to the figure on the floor as if angry at delay:

"Come along. Get up."

But the Dare-devil of the West, the killer of Indians, the Pirates' Terror, had no intention of rising. Enough was sufficient for this Despiser of Peace, this Tormentor of Brides. To fight in orderly fashion with a boy you know you can lick—that's one thing. But to struggle with wild animals, cyclones and supernatural forces that ignore the rules of war and really mean to kill you, and will,—unless you can get away,—that's very different. Moreover, something was telling him now that a big will in a little body can demolish giants. He knew he was stronger than Cyrus, but the thing with which he had so suddenly become acquainted was the spirit within this smaller boy—the same old spirit that stirred the Greeks at Marathon, and the handful of Lexington farmers. And now, before him, with the swelling nose and bleeding lips, glowered the embodiment of that immortal spirit. The Tormentor of Brides suspected, and his suspicions were correct, that if he hurled this boy a dozen times against the opposite pews he would still come at him, and each assault would be more deadly than its predecessor.

Cyrus, again ignoring the Rules of the Ring, stepped forward and kicked him. "Come, get up! Get up. Finish it!"

Slowly the New Boy shook his head, with a gesture of defeat. He muttered something too low to hear—words drowned in the notes of the organ. He refused to rise.

Then Cyrus turned and held out his hand to Ruth. In drawing the back of a fist across his mouth during the conflict his cheeks had become smeared with blood. As Ruth stared in a kind of terror at this gory visage with riotous hair, swelling nose and still bleeding lips, she saw in the erstwhile drowsy eyes a look that was unfamiliar; a look of determination, as if no arguments from God or man or devil would be considered. Weak and all atremble, her one desire was for hurrying home. But she obeyed the unspoken mandate and laid her hand in his. Then Luther, also in obedience to an unspoken command, this time a peremptory gesture toward the pulpit, again started up the aisle. And it so happened as the little assemblage resumed its interrupted progress the great organ in the gallery burst forth with Wagner's "Wedding March"; and it filled the church.

The marriage ceremony passed off well;—that is, of course,—making allowance for the officiating person who had no knowledge of what he ought to say, or of what he was saying. With constant promptings and corrections from the bride—who although somewhat hysterical at the moment, had a remarkable memory for the sound of words—Luther managed to get along. To misunderstand certain promptings was excusable, for the music was confusing. Horace Phillips, in the gallery, ignorant of what was happening below, had started off with the full force of the organ, and he continued with enthusiasm until the swelling notes resounded through the empty building.

Ruth supplied all the language.

Luther. Will you take this wedded girl for your wife?

Cyrus. I will.

Luther. Will you take this wedded boy for your husband?

Ruth. I will.

Luther. Do you promise to endure with all your worldly goods?

Cyrus. I do.

Luther. Will you hold on for better than worse?

Ruth. I will.

Luther. You promise to obey?

Cyrus. I do.

Luther. Until death departs, richer or poorer and cherish.

Ruth. I do.

Cyrus. It is.

Luther. I denounce you as man and wife.

Cyrus. I do.

Ruth. No, Cyrus, you say nothing.

Cyrus. Nothing.

Ruth. No, no! You don't say anything—just keep still.

Luther. With this ring I you wed.

Cyrus. No. I say that!

He said it, and with heroic self-control bade a silent farewell to his silver treasure as he slipped it on a finger of the bride. Then, to the rejoicing music, they marched down the aisle.

Outside the church the bride, who feared a renewal of the conflict, looked about with anxious eyes for the Budding Outlaw. But she had no cause for alarm. The Budding Outlaw was visible, far down the street, beyond the common, marching with humble mien, reflecting sadly on the uncertainties of human life.