“Well!  Who’s this?...  Why, if it’s not Mel Iden!  What a night to be out in!” he exclaimed.  He led them into a room, evidently his study, where a cheerful wood fire blazed.  There he took both her hands and looked from her to Lane.  “You look so white and distressed.  This late hour—­this young man whom I know.  What has happened?  Why do you come to me—­the first time in so many months?”

“To ask you to marry us,” answered Mel.

“To marry you?...  Is this the soldier who wronged you?”

“No.  This is Daren Lane....  He wants to marry me to give my boy a name....  Somehow he finally made me consent.”

“Well, well, here is a story.  Come, take off this snowy cloak and get nearer the fire.  Your hands are like ice.”  His voice was very calm and kind.  It soothed Lane’s strained nerves.  With what eagerness did he scrutinize the old minister’s face.  He knew the penetrating eye, the lofty brow and white hair, the serious lined face, sad in a noble austerity.  But the lips were kind with that softness and sweetness which comes from gentle words and frequent smiles.  Lane’s aroused antagonism vanished in the old man’s presence.

“Doctor Wallace,” went on Mel.  “We have been to several ministers, and to Mr. Hartley, the magistrate.  All refused to marry us.  So I came to my old friend.  You’ve known me all my life.  Daren has at last convinced me—­broke down my resistance.  So—­I ask—­will you marry us?”

Doctor Wallace was silent for many moments while he gazed into the fire and stroked her hand.  Suddenly a smile broke over his fine face.

“You say you asked Hartley to marry you?”

“Yes, we went to him.  It was a reckless thing to do.  I’m sorry.”

“To say the least, it was original.”  The old minister seemed to have difficulty in restraining a laugh.  Then for a moment he pondered.

“My friends, I am very old,” he said at length, “but you have taught me something.  I will marry you.”

It was a strange marriage.  Behind Mel and Daren stood the red-faced, grinning driver, his coarse long coat covered with snow, and the simpering housemaid, respectful, yet glorifying in her share in this midnight romance.  The old minister with his striking face and white hair, gravely turned the leaves of his book.  No bridegroom ever wore such a stern, haggard countenance.  The bride’s face might have been a happier one, but it could not have been more beautiful.

Doctor Wallace’s voice was low and grave; it quavered here and there in passages.  Lane’s was hardly audible.  Mel’s rang deep and full.

The witnesses signed their names; husband and wife wrote theirs; the minister filled out the license, and the ceremony was over.

Then Doctor Wallace took a hand of each.