As one in a dream, Lane led Mel out in the whirling white pall of snow.  It seemed to envelop them.  It was mysterious and friendly, and silent.

They crossed the bridge, and Lane again listened for the river voices that always haunted here.  Were they only murmurings of swift waters?  Beyond the bridge lay the railroad station.  A few dim lights shone through the white gloom.  Lane found a taxi.

They were silent during the ride through the lonely streets.  When the taxi stopped at the address given the driver, Lane whispered a word to Mel, jumped out and ran up the steps of a house and rang the bell.

“Is Doctor McCullen at home?” he inquired of the maid who answered the ring.  He was informed the minister had just gone to his room.

“Will you ask him to come down upon a matter of importance?”

The maid invited him inside.  In a few moments a tall, severe-looking man wearing a long dressing-coat entered the parlor.

“Doctor McCullen, I regret disturbing you, but my business is urgent.  I want to be married at once.  The lady is outside in a car.  May I bring her in?”

“Ah!  I seem to remember you.  Isn’t your name Lane?”

“Yes.”

“Who is the woman you want to marry?”

“Miss Iden.”

“Miss Iden!  You mean Joshua Iden’s daughter?”

“I do.”

The minister showed a grave surprise.  “Aren’t you rather late in making amends?  No, I will not marry you until I investigate the matter,” he replied, coldly.

“You need not trouble yourself,” replied Lane curtly, and went out.

The instant opposition stimulated Lane, and he asked the driver, “John, do you know where we can find a preacher?” “Yis, sor.  Mr. Peters of the Methodist Church lives round the corner,” answered the man.

“Drive on, then.”

Lane got inside the taxi and slammed the door.  “Mel, he refused to marry us.”

Mel was silent, but the pressure of her hand answered him.

“Daren, the car has stopped,” said Mel, presently.

Lane got out, walked up the steps, and pulled the bell.  He was admitted.  He had no better luck here.  Lane felt that his lips shut tight, and his face set.  Mel said nothing and sat by him, very quiet.  The taxi rolled on and stopped again, and Lane had audience with another minister.  He was repulsed here also.

“We’re trying a magistrate,” said Lane, when the car stopped again.

“But, Daren.  This is where Gerald Hartley lives.  Not him, Daren.  Surely you wouldn’t go to him?”

“Why not?” inquired Lane.

“It hasn’t been two months since he married Helen Wrapp.  Hadn’t you heard?”

“I’d forgotten,” said Lane.

“Besides, Daren, he—­he once asked me to marry him—­before the war.”