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It was a wasteful remark, for Polly instantly drew away.

“What DO you mean?” she laughed.

“Fletcher Farrell of Harbor Castle,” I explained, “offered me those things, minus you. But I wanted you.”

“I see,” cried Polly, “he wanted to adopt you. He always talks of that. I am sorry for him. He wants a son so badly.” She sighed softly, “Poor uncle!”

“Poor WHAT!” I yelled.

“Didn’t you know,” exclaimed Polly, “that Mrs. Farrell was a Briggs! She was my father’s sister.”

“Then YOU,” I said, “are the relation who was ‘too high and mighty’!” Polly shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I didn’t want to be dependent.”

“And you gave up all that,” I exclaimed, “and worked at Hatchardson’s, just because you didn’t want to be dependent!”

“I like my uncle-in-law very much,” explained Polly, “but not my aunt. So, it was no temptation. No more,” she cried, looking at me as though she were proud of me, “than it was to you.”

In guilty haste I changed the subject. In other words, I kissed her. I knew some day I would have to confess. But until we were safely married that could wait. Before confessing I would make sure of her first. The next day we announced our engagement and Polly consented that it should be a short one. For, as I pointed out, already she had kept me waiting thirty years. The newspapers dug up the fact that I had once been a popular novelist, and the pictures they published of Polly proved her so beautiful that, in congratulation, I received hundreds of telegrams. The first one to arrive came from Cape May. It read:

My dear boy, your uncle elect sends his heartiest congratulations to you and love to Polly. Don’t make any plans until you hear from me–am leaving to-night. FLETCHER FARRELL.

In terror Polly fled into my arms. Even when NOT in terror it was a practice I strongly encouraged.

“We are lost!” she cried. “They will adopt us in spite of ourselves. They will lock us up for life in Harbor Castle! I don’t WANT to be adopted. I want YOU! I want my little cottage!”

I assured her she should have her little cottage; I had already bought it. And during the two weeks before the wedding, when I was not sitting around Boston while Polly bought clothes, we refurnished it. Polly furnished the library, chiefly with my own books, and “The Log of the JOLLY POLLY.” I furnished the kitchen. For a man cannot live on honeysuckles alone. My future uncle-in-law was gentle but firm.

“You can’t get away from the fact,” he said, that you will be my nephew, whether you like it or not. So, be kind to an old man and let him give the bride away and let her be married from Harbor Castle.”

In her white and green High Flier car and all of her diamonds, Mrs. Farrell called on Polly and begged the same boon. We were too happy to see any one else dissatisfied; so though we had planned the quietest of weddings, we gave consent. Somehow we survived it. But now we recall it only as that terrible time when we were never alone. For once in the hands of our rich relations the quiet wedding we had arranged became a royal alliance, a Field of the Cloth of Gold, the chief point of attack for the moving-picture men.

The youths who came from New York to act as my ushers informed me that the Ushers’ Dinner at Harbor Castle-from which, after the fish course, I had fled–was considered by them the most successful ushers’ dinner in their career of crime. My uncle-in-Law also testifies to this. He ought to know. At four in the morning he was assisting the ushers in throwing the best man and the butler into the swimming-pool.

For our honeymoon he loaned us the yacht. “Take her as far as you like,” he said. “After this she belongs to you and Polly. And find a better name for her than Harbor Lights. It sounds too much like a stay-at-home. And I want you two to see the world.” I thanked him, and suggested he might rechristen her the JOLLY POLLY.

“That was the name,” I pointed out, “of the famous whaler owned by Captain Briggs, your wife’s father, and it would be a compliment to Polly, too.”

My uncle-in-law-elect agreed heartily; but made one condition:

“I’ll christen her that,” he said, “if you will promise to write a new Log of the JOLLY POLLY.” I promised. This is it.