beneath the curving hat-brim, swimming with tears....  She nodded as he saw her, and smiled, the promise of their future together curving the sweet lips into gracious, womanly lines.  Behind her, on guard as usual, and gay in a gorgeous garment of black-and-white checks, white waistcoat and flaming scarlet buttonhole, sat Dollops, faithfully watching while Cleek assisted at the ceremony that was uniting two souls in one, and casting aside forever the smirch of a name that must rankle in the heart of her who had owned it in common with the man who had so nearly wrought her soul’s desolation.

...  Then it was all over.  The organ swelled once more with its tidings of joy; upon her husband’s arm ’Toinette passed down the tiny aisle, tears running down her cheeks unchecked, and mingling with the smiles that chased each other like sunbeams across her happy face.  Cleek was at the porch waiting for them as they came out.  He reached forth a hand to each.

“Good luck—­and God bless you both,” he said.  “This is a fitting end, Merriton, and a new and glorious beginning.”

“And every moment of it, every second of it we owe to you, Mr. Cleek,” returned Sir Nigel, in a deep, happy voice.  “Time alone can show our gratitude—­I can’t.”

Cleek bowed, and his hand went out suddenly to Ailsa Lorne, who had stolen up beside him, went out and caught her hand and held it in a grip that hurt.  “I know, boy.  And one day in the glad future I shall call upon you—­who knows?—­to attend a similar ceremony on my behalf, and in which Mr. Narkom here has promised to act as best man—­with Dollops to bolster him up if he should be attacked with nerves.  Now be off with you and—­be happy.  We’ll see you later at the Towers, Merriton.  Good-bye to you both.”

The door closed, the engine started, Dollops sprang back and they were off.  The boy turned suddenly, looked at Cleek and Ailsa standing there in the sunshine of the little porch, at Mr. Narkom chuckling quietly behind them, and—­remarked: 

“Gawd!  Dunno which is the best—­weddings or funerals!  Strite I don’t.  Yer snivels at bofe like a blinkin’ fool wiv a cold in ’is ’ead.  And when it comes to your time, Guv’nor! well, if yer don’t let me myke a third at the funnymoon, I’ll commit hurry-skurry on yer wery doorstep!...  An’ jolly good riddance ter bad rubbish, too!”

THE END