“But I didn’t!  It’s going to be such fun to work it out, you and I together.”

He shook his head.  “Don’t count on me, dear.  I probably shan’t have time to do more than take you in to town and drop you in the shopping district.  You’ll have to do it all.  You’ve married a doctor, Ellen—­that’s the whole story.  And it’s the knowledge of that fact that makes me realize that I may as well leave my bride at the fifty-mile-stone.  It’ll take my wife that fifty miles to prepare herself for the thing that’s going to strike her the minute we are home.  And, by the fates, I believe that’s the stone, ahead there, at the curve of the road!”

He brought the Green Imp’s pace down until it was moving very slowly toward the mile-stone.  Then he turned and looked steadily down into the face beside him.  “Shall you be sorry to get there?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be a bride.  They are useless persons.  And I don’t care much for bridegrooms, either.  I prefer a busy husband.  And I shall enjoy getting those rooms in order, quite by myself.  To tell the truth I’m not at all sure I don’t prefer to do them alone.  I’ve had one enlightening experience, shopping with you, you know.”

“So you have.”  He laughed at the remembrance.  “Yet I thought I was pretty meek, that day.  Well, so you don’t mind getting to the mile-stone?”

“Not a bit.”

They were beside it now.  Burns stopped the car.  It was a country road, although it was the main highway between two large cities, and on this April afternoon it was deserted by motorists.  Only in the distance could be discerned anything in the nature of a vehicle, and that was headed the other way.

“I suppose I’m a sentimental chap,” he observed.  “But in one way I’ve been rather dreading getting home, for your sake.  It’s come over me, since we turned our faces this way, that not a thing has been done to make my shabby old place fit for you—­except to clean it thoroughly.  Cynthia’s seen to that.  Does it seem as if I hadn’t cared to give you a fit welcome home?”

His eyes were a little troubled, as they searched hers.  But they grew light again as they read in her serene glance that she did not misunderstand him.

“Red,” said she—­and her hand slipped into his—­“I like best to come into your house, just as it is.  Take me in—­that’s all I ask—­and trust me to make my own home there—­and in your heart.  That’s all I want.”

“You’re in my heart,” said her husband, “so close and warm there’s not much room for anything else.”

“Then don’t worry about the house.  It will be a dear delight to fill the empty rooms; I’ve a genius for that sort of thing.  Wait and see.  And meanwhile”—­she smiled up into his nearing face—­“say good-bye to your bride.  She’s quite ready to go—­and give place to your wife.”

So Redfield Pepper Burns kissed his bride, with the ardour of farewell.  But the next minute, safe in the shelter of the deep-hooded top, he had welcomed his wife with his heart of hearts upon his lips, and a few low-spoken words in her ear which would make the fiftieth-from-the-office mile-stone a place to remember for them both.