“You’ve got something up your sleeve, all right,” he said dubiously; but she remained severely silent until he gave in and promised.

“Well, then,” she said, “this is what our honeymoon is going to be.  We’ll take one of the farm Fords-Rush can spare one, I’m sure, in October-and we’ll get some camping things and start out—­oh, along any one of your old routes—­without one single cent of money.  And we’ll tune pianos as we go.  We’ll live off the country.  Really and honestly take to the road.  For a month.  If we can’t find any pianos we’ll go hungry—­or beg!  The one thing we won’t do, whatever happens, is to telegraph.  After we’ve done that we’ll come back and be—­regular people.  And I won’t mind, then.  Because, don’t you see, you’ll know.  And if it’s ever necessary to do it again, we’ll do it again.”

“There’s no one in the world,” he remarked in a voice that wanted to break, “—­no one in the world who’d have thought of that but you.  But, my dear, I don’t need any reassurance like that.”

“Tony, dearest, don’t be solemn,” she admonished him.  “Won’t it be fun!”

THE END