“Tell me, Ruth, what shall I give you?  I alone have sent nothing,” he said. “‘Ask and you shall receive,’ you know.  What is to be my poor offering for the wedding feast?”

“Will you promise beforehand to grant it?”

“If I can, dear, I will grant it.”

“Goody!” she cried, in almost childish glee.  Then she stepped lightly away, her hands behind her, and, like a mischievous child, she leaned slightly forward as she spoke.  “Here it is:  Wear your purple to-day—­I like it.”

“But, child, I don’t want—­”

One white hand was raised in protest, and he seemed once more to be in London, a tiny figure before him, the blue eyes open wide and the graceful head nodding emphasis to each word: 

“You—­promised—­uncle.”

Even so the child had spoken.  Monsignore was learning more of the ways of youth.  He sighed.

“All right,” he granted, “I will wear the purple.”

“Thank you—­and God bless you, Monsignore.”

“And God bless you, my child.”  Monsignore lifted his hand in blessing, then hurried to the church to prepare for the Mass.

The church was already crowded as he stepped from the sanctuary, clad in rich white vestments—­a present from Mark.  Leaning on the arm of the minister, Ruth came slowly up the aisle, her filmy lace veil flowing softly around her and far down over the delicate satin of her sweeping train.  As they neared the altar where Monsignore stood waiting, her maids, friends who had come hurriedly from England, stepped aside and Mark took his stand at her right.  Her small hand trembled in his as the words of the nuptial service were pronounced, but her eyes spoke volumes of love and trust.  Then each sought a prie-dieu and knelt to pray, while the service went on and from the choir rang the beautiful tones of the Messe Solennelle.  The voices softened with the Agnus Dei, then faded into silence.  Together the bride and groom approached the linen cloth held by the surpliced altar boys, and together they received the greatest of sacraments, then returned to their prie-dieux.

The service over, Mark arose and joined his wife.  Slowly the bridal party went down the aisle and out to the waiting car which bore them swiftly to Killimaga.  When the time came to part, Monsignore and his guests accompanied Baron Griffin and his bride to the train, then once more sought the quiet of the ivy-clad rectory.

But even the most pleasant of days must end.  The happy group broke up as the guests departed, and at last Monsignore sat alone before the blazing fire which Ann had builded in the study, for the chill of the autumn evening was in the air.