Wallace Ormsby sought and obtained a second interview with Mr. Keith that evening, in which he asked his senior partner to take him into still closer relations, and bestow upon him a priceless gift.

Mr. Keith was both surprised and moved. "I can't realize that she's really grown up," he said, "and—I—don't know how to spare her even to you, Wallace."

"But you know, my dear sir, it isn't as if I wanted to carry her away."

"No, that's quite true. But her mother's right in her is fully equal to mine. Wait a moment till I call her in."

So the request and the arguments in its favor had to be repeated.

The mother's eyes filled, and for a moment she was silent. Then, holding out her hand to the young man, "I have long had a motherly affection for you, Wallace," she said, "and there is no one else to whom I could so willingly entrust the happiness of my dear child, and yet it is very hard to give her up."

"Don't think of it in that way, dear Mrs. Keith," he made answer in tones of the deepest respect, taking the hand and lifting it gallantly to his lips. "Think of it rather as taking another member, another son, into the family. It would be joy to me to have the right to call you mother."

"And I should be proud to own you as my son," she returned with her own sweet, motherly smile. "But Zillah herself must decide this question."

"Then I have nothing to fear, nothing more to ask," he said joyously.

In truth, no one had any objection to bring against the match, and all went smoothly and happily with the newly affianced pair.

The next day Wallace came hurrying in with beaming countenance and eager air. "Ah! it was you I wanted," he said, finding his betrothed alone in the parlor, whither she had betaken herself for her daily hour of practice on the piano. "Won't you put on a shawl and bonnet and come with me?"

"Where?" she asked with a merry twinkle in her eye.

"Just across the street to look at that house of Miller's. It's nearly finished, and he's willing to sell."

"But who wants to buy?" she asked in her pretty, saucy way, as she stepped into the hall and tied on a bonnet which she took from the hat-rack there, while Wallace threw a shawl about her shoulders.

"Perhaps we can better answer that question after we've been over it," he said with a smile.

So it proved; the snug, pretty, conveniently arranged cottage—so close to the old home too—seemed just the thing for them. "Father, mother," and all the family were presently brought over to look at and pronounce an opinion upon it, and without a dissenting voice the purchase was decided upon.

"And now there's another and still more important matter to be settled," whispered Wallace in Zillah's ear.

"There is no hurry," she answered, blushing.

"There is to be a double or a triple wedding in our church in about a month from now," he went on lightly and in coaxing tones. "I want it to be the latter; so do four other people; but it all depends on you. Come, darling, why should we wait longer than that?"

"Ah! it fairly frightens me to think of such haste," she said, half averting her blushing face.

"I don't know why it should," he responded, his tone speaking both disappointment and chagrin, "unless you fear to trust your happiness to my keeping."

"That's because men are so different from women; but to save a quarrel—we'll leave it to father's and mother's decision; shan't we?"

And she turned to him again with a smile so arch and sweet that he consented at once, and sealed the promise with a kiss.

Father and mother said, "Wait at least until next spring; you are both young enough, and we cannot part so suddenly with our dear child."

"Hardly a parting—just to let her cross the street," Wallace made answer with a sigh that was not altogether of resignation; then added a hint that he would be willing to leave her in her father's house until spring if only they would let him join her there.

But that proposal was smilingly rejected, and the wedding day indefinitely postponed until "some time in the spring."

Intimate friends were not kept in ignorance of the engagement, and the two expectant brides and bridegrooms were, until convinced of its uselessness, very urgent for the triple wedding.

The double one took place at the appointed time and place, was quite a brilliant affair, and followed by a round of festivities such as the quiet little town had never witnessed before. Evening entertainments were given by the Chetwoods, the Granges, the Keiths, and one or two others. Then life settled back into the ordinary grooves, and the rest of the fall and winter passed without any unusual excitement.

The Keiths were quietly, cheerfully busy, as at other times. Wallace came and went as before, but was oftener left to Zillah's sole entertainment, yet treated more entirely than ever as one of the family.

Brighter days were dawning for our friends. Through all these years they had been very diligent in business and very faithful in paying tithes of all they possessed, and the truth of Scripture declarations and promises—"the hand of the diligent maketh rich," and "so shall thy barns be filled with plenty and thy presses burst out with new wine"—was being verified in their experience. This fall Messrs. Keith & Ormsby found themselves successful in several very important cases, which brought them both fame and money; the town was now growing rapidly, business looking up, and land, which they had bought for a trifle on first coming to the place, had already doubled and trebled in value.

Rupert, too, was succeeding well in his chosen vocation, and both he and his father urged Mildred to cease her toil as a music teacher, saying there was now not the slightest necessity for such exertion on her part.

The mother's views coincided with theirs, but Mildred begged to be permitted to go on in the old way, saying constant employment was good for her; she was used to it and liked it.

"And besides," she added playfully, "I enjoy the thought that I am laying a little something by against old age or a rainy day. I am not likely ever to marry, so will do well to be self-helpful; and why should I not have a business the same as if I were a man? I shall be all the happier, the more useful, and the more independent."

So they let her have her way. She was not keeping employment from those who needed it, for there were plenty of pupils for all the teachers in the place. Effie Prescott was now one of these—most faithful and successful, and full of joy and thankfulness that thus she was able to win her bread; for she had not strength to do so in any more laborious way, and her father was poor enough to feel it a relief to have Effie supporting herself.

"And I have you to thank for it," she had said again and again to Mildred; "it is one of your good works, and I shall never cease to be grateful to you for it."

"Indeed, Effie, you owe me nothing," Mildred would reply; "not even gratitude, for you have paid well for all I have done for you. You owe it all, under God, to your own industry, energy, and perseverance in the use and improvement of the talents he has given you."

To the whole household at Mr. Keith's the all-absorbing interest was the fitting up and furnishing of the snug cottage across the street, and the preparation of Zillah's trousseau, in the expense or labor of which each one was determined to have a share.

All these matters were freely discussed in the family, even the little boys and girls being deemed worthy to be trusted not to speak of them to outsiders. Not that any one felt that there was any special cause for concealment of their plans or doings, but they did not wish to have them canvassed and commented upon by the busybodies and gossips of the town, who, like those of other places, always knew so much more of their neighbors' affairs than did those neighbors themselves.

No one rejoiced more sincerely than Mildred in the evident happiness of the affianced pair; no one entered more heartily into their plans, was oftener consulted in regard to them, or was more generous with money and labor in carrying them out. Her sisterly pride in Zillah's beauty was without a touch of envy or jealousy, though she was fully aware of the fact that it far exceeded her own.

"What a lovely bride she will make!" Mildred often whispered to herself. "Wallace may well feel consoled for my rejection of his suit."

She tried hard for perfect unselfishness, and to entirely fill her mind and heart with the interests of the hour, especially as affecting these two; but thoughts of the love that now seemed lost to her, of the dreams of happiness which had been for years gradually fading till there was scarcely a vestige of them left, would at times intrude themselves, filling her with a sadness she could scarce conceal from the watchful eyes of the tender mother who knew and so fully sympathized in the sorrows and anxieties of this her first-born and dearly beloved child.

She knew that even yet there was a constant longing, a half-unconscious daily looking for of news of the wanderer as the mail came in, followed each time by renewed disappointment, and that often the poor, weary heart grew sick indeed with hope deferred.

As spring opened, the day for the wedding drew near, and the preparations for it were almost completed. Mildred's sadness of heart increased, until it cost her a constant and often heroic struggle to maintain her cheerfulness before others; while at times she could not refrain from shedding many tears in the privacy of her own room. One evening her mother, entering softly, found her weeping.

"My dear, dear child!" she whispered, taking her in her arms and caressing her tenderly, "my dear, brave, unselfish girl! you do not know how your mother loves you!"

"Precious mother!" responded the weeping girl, hastily wiping away her tears and returning the caress; "what could I ever do without your dear love! I am ashamed of my depression; ashamed that I should yield to it in this way. Ah, I little deserve to be called brave!"

"It has been a long, hard trial, dear daughter," Mrs. Keith said, softly stroking Mildred's hair, "and you have borne it wonderfully well; as you could not in your own strength, I well know."

"No, never! The joy of the Lord has been my strength, else my heart would have broken long ago; for oh, this terrible suspense! so much worse than any certainty could be!"

"I know it, darling," her mother responded in moved tones; "then would it not be your wisest course to endeavor to convince yourself that either utter indifference or death has ended this for you?"

"Mother, that is not in the power of my will. That Charlie could prove untrue I cannot believe, and something tells me that he still lives."

"Then, dearest, cheer up. Why this increased sadness of late?"

"I hardly know myself, mother dear; I am sure my whole heart rejoices in the happiness of my sister and Wallace; yet somehow the sight of it seems to deepen my own sorrow by contrast. I fear it is because I am selfish."

"I cannot think so," her mother said; "so do not harbor that thought, thus adding to your distress. Try to cast your care on the Lord, fully believing the inspired declaration that 'all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.' He is never for a moment unmindful of one of his children; he has a plan for each one, and suffers no real evil to befall them. 'Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him.'"

"Ah, mother!" Mildred said, smiling through her tears, "I am more and more convinced that all I need to make me perfectly happy is strong, unwavering faith in the wisdom and love of my heavenly Father; then I should rejoice to do and suffer all his holy will, never doubting that what he sends is the very best for me."

There was an additional cause for Mildred's depression just at this time—one felt in greater or less degree by all the Keiths—in the thought that this was the beginning of the inevitable breaking up of the dear family circle—the forming by one of their number of new ties, which must in some measure supplant the old—the tender loves of parents and children, brothers and sisters. Zillah was not going far away, and they did not fear to trust her to Wallace; but their home would no longer be hers, and another, in whose veins ran no drop of their blood, would henceforth be nearer and dearer to her than they.

Except the parents, perhaps no other felt this quite so keenly as Ada—the nearest in age and hitherto the room-mate and almost inseparable companion of the sister who was leaving them.

It was the morning of the wedding day; the ceremony was to take place in the evening, in the parlor of Mr. Keith's house, which the sisters were busily decorating for the occasion with spring flowers from the garden and the woods.

The supply was not sufficient, and the little boys were sent in search of more; the mother and Celestia Ann—who still lived with them, going home occasionally for a few weeks, but always returning and taking up her duties there with renewed satisfaction—were deep in the mysteries of cake-making and kindred arts; so when the door-bell rang Ada answered it.

Standing before the open door was a very pleasant-faced young man, whose dress and general appearance seemed to bespeak him a clergyman. He lifted his hat with a low bow, his face lighting up with a smile of recognition.

"Miss Mildred?" he said half inquiringly, as he held out his hand in cordial greeting.

"No, sir," returned Ada, giving him her hand, but with a slightly puzzled look; "I am Ada Keith."

"Ah! one of the little ones when I knew you—not old enough to remember me, I fear. I am from Lansdale, your old Ohio home."

He handed her a card, on which she read at a glance, "Rev. Francis Osborne."

"Ah, I know now who you are! I have a slight remembrance of a big boy of that name who has had time enough to grow into a man," she said with an arch smile that he thought very bewitching. "Come in, Mr. Osborne; they will all be glad to see you."

He was warmly welcomed and hospitably entertained, as an old-time friend, as one coming from the early home still held in tender remembrance, and as a messenger from Aunt Wealthy, who sent by him a handsome bridal gift—a beautiful gold brooch. Quite unexpected; for the dear old lady had already given generously toward the house-furnishing.

Zillah was greatly pleased. There was already upon a side-table in the sitting-room quite an array of handsome presents from her near relatives and friends—the Dinsmore cousins and others—and Aunt Wealthy's gift was now assigned a conspicuous place among them.

Mrs. Keith's wedding dress of rich, white silk, her bridal veil and orange blossoms, had been carefully preserved, and finding that the dress exactly fitted her, Zillah had chosen to be married in it, in decided preference to having a new one.

It was, of course, made in very old-fashioned style, but she insisted that she liked it all the better for that, and no one who saw her in it could deny that it was extremely becoming.

All the sisters were to be bridesmaids—in the order of their ages—and all to wear white tarlatan. Rupert would be first groomsman; Robert Grange, a brother of Lu, second; Cyril and Don, third and fourth.

A large number of guests were invited and a handsome entertainment was provided. Their pastor, Mr. Lord, had received due notice of the coming event, and promised to officiate.

Seeing him leaving the parsonage early in the afternoon, his mother called to him, asking where he was going.

"For a walk and to make a pastoral call or two," he answered, pausing and turning toward her with an air of affectionate respect.

"Well, Joel, don't forget to come home early enough to dress for the wedding. I shall be ready in good season, and hope you will too."

"Oh, certainly, mother! I'm glad you reminded me, though, for I really had forgotten it."

"And will again, I'm very much afraid," she murmured, between a smile and a sigh, as she watched him down the street.

He walked on and on in meditative mood, till nearing a farm-house, several miles from town, he was waked from his revery by the voice of its owner bidding him good-day and asking if he would go with him to the river for an afternoon's fishing. "I was just setting off for it," he said. "I've an extra pole and line here, and shall be glad of your company."

"Thank you, Mr. Vail, I will: it's a pastime I'm somewhat partial to," the minister made answer.

"Will, Will!" the farmer called to his son, "bring me that other fishing tackle, and tell your mother we'll be back—Mr. Lord and I—for tea about sundown."

Seven was the hour set for the wedding ceremony. At half-past five Mrs. Lord's tea-table was ready and waiting for the return of her son. But six o'clock came, and there was no sign of his approach.

"I'll go and dress; perhaps he'll be here by that time," she said to herself, turning from the window from which she had been gazing with constantly increasing anxiety and impatience.

She made a hasty toilet, hoping every moment to hear his step and voice. But he came not. She ate her supper, watched the clock until the hands pointed to five minutes of seven; then, filled with vexation and chagrin, donned bonnet and shawl and set off in haste for Mr. Keith's.

That gentleman met her at the gate. "Ah, my dear madam, I am glad to see you!" he said, shaking hands with her. "Walk in. But where is Mr. Lord? The guests are all assembled—now that you are here—and everything is in readiness for the ceremony."

"Indeed, Mr. Keith, I'm terribly mortified!" the old lady burst out, flushing like a girl; "it's just Joel's absent-mindedness. He meant to be here in season, I know; but he walked out some hours since, and where he is now, or when he will remember to come back, I don't know. Please don't wait for him another minute, if you can get anybody to take his place."

"Fortunately we can," said Mr. Keith; "so please, my dear madam, do not feel disturbed about that."

He led her into the house, and called Rupert and Wallace from the bridal chamber, where the wedding party were assembled. Then Frank Osborne was summoned from the parlor, where, with the other guests, he sat waiting to witness the coming ceremony. There was a whispered consultation; then Wallace hastened to his bride again, and whispered a word to her, to which she gave a pleased, blushing assent, as she rose and suffered him to draw her hand within his arm.

In another minute or two bridegroom and bride, with the whole train of attendants, had taken their places in presence of the assembled guests, and the ceremony began, Frank Osborne officiating.

He did not seem at all embarrassed or at a loss for words; his manner was solemn and tender, and when the ceremony was over every one said, "How beautiful it was!"

While the bride and groom were receiving the congratulations of relatives and friends, Mr. Lord, having leisurely finished his tea, sat in the farm-house porch, quietly conversing with his host. But a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he started up in evident perturbation.

"What is it?" asked Mr. Vail; "anything gone wrong?"

"Rather," groaned the minister, glancing at the face of his watch, which he had just drawn from its fob. "I was to have married Wallace Ormsby and one of Mr. Keith's daughters about fifteen minutes ago."

"Better get back to town, then, as fast as you can," returned the farmer, laughing. "I'll harness up and take you."

"Alas, man, it's already too late!" sighed the minister.

"'Better late than never,' though, and they may be waiting for you still."

"Why, yes; that's possible, to be sure!"

"Where shall I take you?" Mr. Vail asked, half an hour later, as they drove into the town.

"Drive right to Mr. Keith's, if you please."

"I thought maybe you'd want to fix up a bit, seeing it's a wedding you're going to."

"Oh, to be sure! yes, certainly! I'm glad you reminded me. I'll go home and dress first."

"And while you're at that I'll go round and tell 'em you're coming—just to keep 'em from getting quite out of heart, you know."

He went, and by the time Mr. Lord's toilet was completed, returned with the information, delivered in tones of amusement and with eyes twinkling with fun: "You've lost the job, sir; somebody else has tied the knot; but they've sent word for you to hurry along and you'll be in time for the refreshments. So cheer up, for that's the main thing, after all, ain't it."

"Really I—I'm ashamed to go now," stammered the minister, looking much mortified and embarrassed.

"Tut, tut, man! better treat it as a good joke," returned the farmer gayly.

"I believe you're right," said Mr. Lord, and proceeded to take the advice.

His apologies and excuses were received with good-humored raillery, mingled with laughing assurances that he need not disturb himself; as things had turned out 'twas all very well; it seemed a pleasant accident that had left the performing of the ceremony to an old and valued friend of the bride and her family.