The ceremony that took place the following afternoon in the McWhorter cabin was impressive in its extreme simplicity.

At the conclusion of the wedding feast, McWhorter arose, passed into his own room, and returned a moment later with a bottle of wine, which he held to the sunlight: "'Tis auld," he said, reverently, "an' of famous vintage. Its mate was drunk years ago at my ain' weddin' in Sco'lan'. I ha' saved this—for hers." Very carefully he broke the seal, and withdrew the cork, and poured a little of the precious liquid into each thick glass: "We will drink," he said, solemnly, "to the health an' prosperity of—my children!" They drank, and the old Scotchman divided the remaining wine as before. "An' now, Meester Endicott can ye not propose us a toast?"

Endicott rose and allowed his eyes to travel slowly over the upturned faces about him. He began to speak: "Here we are—we and our women—a cattleman, and a sheep-man; a minister of the gospel, and a horse-thief; an ex-bartender, a half-breed, and a Harvard man who until a year ago was of the strictest and most hide-hound sect of the New Englanders—and as Cass Grimshaw so aptly phrased it yesterday—'We are all friends together.' Let us drink—to the wonderful free-masonry of the cow-country!"