On a Monday morning, in but moderate torment at Pearl's inconsistency, Wilbur Cowan sat at the linotype in the _Advance_ office, swiftly causing type metal to become communicative about the week's doings in Newbern.

He hung a finished sheet of Sam Pickering's pencilled copy on a hook, and casually surveyed the sheet beneath.

It was a social item, he saw--the notice of a marriage.

Then names amazingly leaped from it to sear his defenseless eyes.

Lyman Teaford--Miss Pearl King! He gasped and looked about him.