honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live? Mrs. Despard, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live?

And each answered, the man according to his phraseology, " Yep," and the woman according to hers, "Yes, sirree!" And Art Post and the Widow Despard had taken each other for better, for worse.

The prayer Mr. Crimp omitted, for, as he said afterward in describing the scene and his own part in it, he never could pray without an audience.

Mr. Crimp, followed by his son, then shook hands with the newly married pair, wishing them all manner of happiness, and added an invitation to breakfast, not unwilling to convert that dull meal into a wedding repast.

"Thanks," said the taciturn Art, "we had a bite afore we started."

He placed a dollar bill in Mr. Crimp's outstretched fingers, and sprang on his horse; his bride, unassisted, leaped lightly astride of hers, and the pair galloped away.

Forgetful of the breakfast sizzling on the stove within, the preacher and his son gazed long after the riders, and each fell into revery.

66

Soph scattered his train of meditations first. "I say, pa, you've put your foot in it, this time."

"How's that, son?"

Soph grinned. "Won't old Post be mad, though? He won't do a thing to you."

"The old man'll come 'round all right," said Mr. Crimp, easily. Then he burst into a fit of laughter. "But I thought better things of Art."

Soph looked about for a pebble to fling at the meadow-lark singing happily on a fence-post near by, and remarked, as the little creature flew away with a note of alarm:

"You bet no woman will ever get me that way, pa."

On Windy Creek news travels fast. Before night everyone within a radius of five miles was discussing the details of the sunrise wedding.

66 Thur's one woman that's ben made happy by Art's mittenin', if thur's half a dozen that's had thur rest broke by it; an' that woman is Mis' McLeod," announced Mrs. Bunt, in recounting the tale to an eager circle of listeners. "When that woman hearn the noos that Jean were married, she busted right out cryin', an' she kep' a-cryin' all night fur joy; she were that tickled that Jean hadn't married Art; she weren't even riled 'long of Jean's not sendin' her notice of the weddin' till after it were over. You see, it were this-a-way. Mrs. McLeod, she sent Jean to the Springs to visit her aunt fur why she were all wore out a-seein' Art an' her daughter sweet on each other an' gittin' sweeter. It use' to make that woman deathly sick to see Art jest lookin' Jean's way. Jean she didn't reely keers none fur Art; fur she hadn't

hardly laid eyes on this young widowerfellar-he's got a baby left him a year old— afore she up an' married him. 'T looked like she hadn't give him a chanc't to git the askin' out of his mouth afore she took him. Girls is queer things.

"Jean, she like to stirred up a yallerjacket's nest out hyur on Windy Crick when she meddled with them Posts; so did Crimp, a fellar that ought to knowed better'n to have tied one of old man Post's boys to the Widow Despard. They's war 'twixt the Posts an' Crimp, only Crimp, he's fur makin' up; an' they's war 'twixt the Posts an' the McLeods; an' none of the Posts won't speak to Art, nor have nothin' to do with Art's noo wife-the old folks, nor the boys, nor the boys' wives, neither."

Rose Rooney supplied with gusto an incident of the honeymoon trip to Colorado Springs.

66

'Pete, he run into them two lunchin' at Delmonico's. They was eatin' like they was half starved-they'd run off without their breakfasts, I reckon. The old lady, she seemed possessed to rub her face acros't

Art's sleeve after every mouthful. She kep' a-grinnin' up in his face an' ketchin' him 'round the neck. "T seemed like she couldn't let the fellar be. An' the waiters jist a-splittin'. An' Art settin' up straighter'n a ramrod, an' gittin' madder 'n' more redfaceder every minute. She's awful bold. The first time I ever laid eyes on that woman she says to me, 'Art Post is about the prettiest man I ever seen.' Yes, I allus knowed the old lady had her eye on Art."

Mrs. Mort Post disposed of the culprits in the following energetic fashion:

"'FI was Art, I'd send the old lady flyin' in a month's time."

"She's awful old, she's pretty near twic't as old as him," said Diantha Bittern. "Why, she's gray-headed; she's thirtythree or thirty-four year old."

Toward sundown a singular cavalcade passed along the road by the Wood claim; a young man in a two-wheeled cart, valises, bags, boxes, and bundles piled up to his knees, driving a rapid trotter; a brownfaced woman sitting her spirited bronco with ease, her scant skirts and mannish coat