"I, Sarah, take thee, Frederick, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance. And thereto I give thee my troth."

The old clock in the corner was ticking very distinctly; the scent of roses in the crowded room made the air heavy with sweetness; the candles on the mantelpiece flickered in the breeze from the open window; outside a whip-poor-will was singing in the lilac bushes.

"With this ring I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow:
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

An involuntary tear rolled down Mrs. Gray's cheek, to be hastily concealed and wiped away with her new lace handkerchief; her husband was looking straight ahead of him, very hard, at nothing; Ruth adjusted the big white bow on little Elsie's curls; Sylvia felt for Austin's hand behind the folds of her dress, and found it groping for hers.

Then suddenly the spell was broken. The minister was shaking hands with the bride and groom, Sally was taking her bouquet from Molly, every one was laughing and talking at once, crowding up to offer congratulations, handling, admiring, and discussing the wedding presents, half-falling over each other with haste and excitement. Delicious smells began to issue from the kitchen, and the long dining-table was quickly laden down. Sylvia took her place at one end, behind the coffee-urn, Molly at the other end, behind the strawberries and ice-cream. Katherine, Edith, and the boys flew around passing plates, cakes of all kinds, great sugared doughnuts and fat cookies. Sally was borne into the room triumphant on a "chair" made of her brothers' arms to cut and distribute the "bride's cake." Then, when every one had eaten as much as was humanly possible, the piano was moved out to the great new barn, with its fine concrete floors swept and scoured as only Peter could do it, and its every stall festooned with white crepe paper by Sylvia, and the dancing began—for this time the crowd was too great to permit it in the house, in spite of the spacious rooms. Molly and Sylvia took turns in playing, and each found several eager partners waiting for her, every time the "shift" occurred. Finally, about midnight, the bride went upstairs to change her dress, and the girls gathered around the banisters to be ready to catch the bouquet when she came down, laughing and teasing each other while they waited. Great shouts arose, and much joking began, when Edith—and not Sylvia as every one had privately hoped—caught the huge bunch of flowers and ribbon, and ran with it in her arms out on the wide piazza, all the others behind her, to be ready to pelt Sally and Fred with rice when they appeared. Thomas was to drive them to the station, and Sylvia's motor was bedecked with white garlands and bows, slippers and bells, from one end of it to the other. At last the rush came; and the happy victims, showered and dishevelled, waving their handkerchiefs and shouting good-bye, were whisked up the hill, and out of sight.

Sylvia insisted on staying, to begin "straightening out the worst of the mess" as soon as the last guest had gone, and on remaining overnight, sleeping in Sally's old room with Molly, to be on hand and go on with the good work the first thing in the morning. Sadie and James had to leave on the afternoon train, as James had stretched his leave of absence from business to the very last degree already; so by evening the house was painfully tidy again, and so quiet that Mrs. Gray declared it "gave her the blues just to listen to it."

The next night was to be Austin's last one at home, and he had promised Sylvia to go and take supper with her, but just before six o'clock the telephone rang, and she knew that something had happened to disappoint her.

"Is that you, Sylvia?"

"Yes, dear."

"Mr. Carter—the President of the Wallacetown Bank, you know—has just called me up. There's going to be a meeting of the bank officers just after the fourth, as they've decided to enlarge their board of directors, and add at least one 'rising young farmer' as he put it—And oh, Sylvia, he asked if I would allow my name to be proposed! Just think—after all the years when we couldn't get a cent from them at any rate of interest, to have that come! It's every bit due to you!"

"It isn't either—it's due to the splendid work you've done this last year."

"Well, we won't stop to discuss that now. He wants me to drive up and see him about it right away. Do you mind if I take the motor? I can make so much better time, and get back to you so much more quickly—but I can't come to supper—you must forgive me if I go."

"I never should forgive you if you didn't—that's wonderful news! Don't hurry—I'll be glad to see you whatever time you get back."

She hung up the receiver, and sat motionless beside the instrument, too thrilled for the moment to move. What a man he was proving himself—her farmer! And yet—how each new responsibility, well fulfilled, was going to take him more and more from her! She sighed involuntarily, and was about to rise, when the bell sounded again.

"Hullo," she said courteously, but tonelessly. The bottom of the evening had dropped out for her. It mattered very little how she spent it now until Austin arrived.

"Land, Sylvia, you sound as if there'd ben a death in the family! Do perk up a little! Yes, this is Mrs. Elliott—Maybe if some of the folks on this line that's taken their receivers down so's they'll know who I'm talkin' to an' what I'm sayin' will hang up you can hear me a little more plain." (This timely remark resulted in several little clicks.) "There, that's better. I see Austin tearin' past like mad in your otter, and I says to Joe, 'That means Sylvia's all alone again, same as usual; I'm goin' to call her up an' visit with her a spell!' Hot, ain't it? Yes, I always suffer considerable with the heat. I sez this mornin' to Joe, 'Joe, it's goin' to be a hot day,' and he sez, 'Yes, Eliza, I'm afraid it is,' an' I sez, 'Well, we've got to stand it,' an' he—"

"I hope you have," interrupted Sylvia politely.

"Yes, as well as could be expected—you know I ain't over an' above strong this season. My old trouble. But then, I don't complain any—only as I said to Joe, it is awful tryin'. Have you heard how the new minister's wife is doin'? She ain't ben to evenin' meetin' at all regular sence she got here, an' she made an angel cake, just for her own family, last Wednesday. She puts her washin' out, too. I got it straight from Mrs. Jones, next door to her. I went there the other evenin' to get a nightgown pattern she thought was real tasty. I don't know as I shall like it, though. It's supposed to have a yoke made out of crochet or tattin' at the top, an' I ain't got anything of the kind on hand just now, an' no time to make any. Besides, I've never thought these new-fangled garments was just the thing for a respectable woman—there ain't enough to 'em. When I was young they was made of good thick cotton, long-sleeved an' high-necked, trimmed with Hamburg edgin' an' buttoned down the front. Speakin' of nightgowns, how are you gettin' on with your trousseau? Have you decided what you're goin' to wear for a weddin' dress? I was readin' in the paper the other day about some widow that got married down in Boston, an' she wore a pink chif_fon_ dress. I was real shocked. If she'd ben a divorced person, I should have expected some such thing, but there warn't anything of the kind in this case—she was a decent young woman, an' real pretty, judgin' from her picture. But I should have thought she'd have wore gray or lavender, wouldn't you? There oughtn't to be anything gay about a second weddin'! Well, as I was sayin' to Joe about the minister's wife—What's that? You think they're both real nice, an' you're glad he's got some sort of a wife? Now, Sylvia, I always did think you was a little mite hard on Mr. Jessup. I says to Joe, 'Joe, Sylvia's a nice girl, but she's a flirt, sure as you're settin' there,' an' Joe says—"

"Have you heard from Fred and Sally yet?"

"Yes, they've sent us three picture post-cards. Real pretty. There ain't much space for news on 'em, though—they just show a bridge, an' a park, an' a railroad station. Still, of course, we was glad to get 'em, an' they seem to be havin' a fine time. I heard to-day that Ruth's baby was sick again. Delicate, ain't it? I shouldn't be a mite surprised if Ruth couldn't raise her. 'Blue around the eyes,' I says to Joe the first time I ever clapped eyes on her. An' then Ruth ain't got no get-up-and-get to her. Shiftless, same's Howard is, though she's just as well-meanin'. I hear she's thinkin' of keepin' a hired girl all summer. Frank's business don't warrant it. He has a real hard time gettin' along. He's too easy-goin' with his customers. Gives long credit when they're hard up, an' all that. Of course it's nice to be charitable if you can afford it, but—"

"Frank isn't going to pay the hired girl."

"There you go again, Sylvia! You kinder remind me of the widow's cruse, never failin'. 'Tain't many families gets hold of anything like you. Well, I must be sayin' good-night—there seems to be several people tryin' to butt in an' use this line, though probably they don't want it for anything important at all. I've got no patience with folks that uses the telephone as a means of gossip, an' interfere with those that really needs it. Besides, though I'd be glad to talk with you a little longer, I'm plum tuckered out with the heat, as I said before. I ben makin' currant jelly, too. It come out fine—a little too hard, if anything. But, as I says to Joe, 'Druv as I am, I'm a-goin' to call up that poor lonely girl, an' help her pass the evenin'.' Come over an' bring your sewin' an' set with me some day soon, won't you, Sylvia? You know I'm always real pleased to see you. Good-night."

"Good-night." Sylvia leaned back, laughing.

Mrs. Elliott, who infuriated Thomas, and exasperated Austin, was a never-failing source of enjoyment to her. She went back to the porch to wait for Austin, still chuckling.

After the conversation she had had with him, she was greatly surprised, when, a little after eight o'clock, the garden gate clicked. She ran down the steps hurriedly with his name on her lips. But the figure coming towards her through the dusk was much smaller than Austin's and a voice answered her, in broken English, "It ain't Mr. Gray, missus. It's me."

"Why, Peter!" she said in amazement; "is anything the matter at the farm?"

"No, missus; not vat you'd called vrong."

"What is it, then? Will you come up and sit down?"

He stood fumbling at his hat for a minute, and then settled himself awkwardly on the steps at her feet. His yellow hair was sleekly brushed, his face shone with soap and water, and he had on his best clothes. It was quiet evident that he had come with the distinct purpose of making a call.

"Can dose domestics hear vat ve say?" he asked at length, turning his wide blue eyes upon her, after some minutes of heavy silence.

"Not a word."

"Vell den—you know Mr. Gray and I goin' avay to-morrow."

"Yes, Peter."

"To be gone much as a mont', Mr. Gray say."

"I believe so."

"Mrs. Cary, dear missus,—vill you look after Edit' vile I'm gone?"

"Why, yes, Peter," she said warmly, "I always see a good deal of
Edith—we're great friends, you know."

"Yes, missus, that's vone reason vy I come—Edit' t'ink no vone like you—ever vas, ever shall be. But den—I'm vorried 'bout Edit'."

"Worried? Why, Peter? She's well and strong."

"Oh, yes, she's vell—ver' vell. But Edit' love to have a good time—'vun' she say. If I go mit, she come mit me—ven not, mit some vone else."

"I see—you're jealous, Peter."

"No, no, missus, not jealous, only vorried, ver' vorried. Edit' she's young, but not baby, like Mr. and Missus Gray t'ink. I don't like Mr. Yon Veston, missus, nod ad all—and Edit' go out mit him, ev'y chance she get. An' Mr. Hugh Elliott, cousin to Miss Sally's husband, dey say he liked Miss Sally vonce—he's back here now, he looks hard at Edit' ev'y time he see her. He's that kind of man, missus, vat does look ver' hard."

Sylvia could not help being touched. "I'll do my best, Peter, but I can't promise anything. Edith is the kind of girl, as you say, that likes to have 'fun' and I have no real authority over her."

As if the object of his visit was entirely accomplished, Peter rose to leave. "I t'ank you ver' much, missus," he said politely. "It's a ver' varm evening, not? Goodnight."

For a few minutes after Peter left, Sylvia sat thinking over what he had said, and her own face grew "vorried" too. Then the garden gate clicked again, and for the next two hours she was too happy for trouble of any kind to touch her. Austin's interview with Mr. Carter had proved a great success, and after that had been thoroughly discussed, they found a great deal to say about their own plans for September. For the moment, she quite forgot all that Peter had said.

It came back to her, vividly enough, a few nights later. She had sat up very late, writing to Austin, and was still lying awake, long after midnight, when she heard the whirr of a motor near by, and a moment later a soft voice calling under her window. She threw a negligee about her, and ran to the front door; as she unlatched it, Edith slipped in, her finger on her lips.

"Hush! Don't let the servants hear! Oh, Sylvia, I've had such a lark—will you keep me overnight!"

"I would gladly, but your mother would be worried to death."

"No, she won't. You see, I found, two hours ago, that it would be a long time before I got back, and I telephoned her saying I was going to spend the night with you. Don't you understand? She thought I was here then."

"Edith—you didn't lie to your mother!"

"Now, Sylvia, don't begin to scold at this hour, when I'm tired and sleepy as I can be! It wasn't my fault we burst two tires, was it? But mother's prejudiced against Hugh, just because Sally, who's a perfect prude, didn't happen to like him. Lend me one of your delicious night-dresses, do, and let me cuddle down beside you—the bed's so big, you'll never know I'm there."

Sylvia mechanically opened a drawer and handed her the garment she requested.

"Gracious, Sylvia, it's like a cobweb—perhaps if I marry a rich man, I can have things like this! What an angel you look in yours! Austin will certainly think he's struck heaven when he sees you like that! I never could understand what a little thing like you wanted this huge bed for, but, of course, you knew when you bought it—"

"Edith," interrupted Sylvia sharply, "be quiet! In the morning I want to talk with you a little."

But as she lay awake long after the young girl had fallen into a deep, quiet sleep, she felt sadly puzzled to know what she could, with wisdom and helpfulness, say. It was so usual in the country for young girls to ride about alone at night with their admirers, so much the accepted custom, of which no harm seemed to come, that however much she might personally disapprove of such a course, she could not reasonably find fault with it. It was probably her own sense of outraged delicacy, she tried to think, after Edith's careless speech, that made her feel that the child lacked the innate good-breeding and quiet attractiveness, which her sisters, all less pretty than she, possessed to such a marked extent, in spite of their lack of polish. She tried to think that it was only to-night she had noticed how red and full Edith's pouting lips were growing, how careless she was about the depth of her V-cut blouses, how unusually lacking in shyness and restraint for one so young. In the morning, she said nothing and Edith was secretly much relieved; but she went and asked Mrs. Gray if she could not spare her youngest daughter for a visit while Austin was away, "to ward off loneliness." She found the good lady out in the garden, weeding her petunias, and bent over to help her as she made her request.

"There, dearie, don't you bother—you'll get your pretty dress all grass-stain, and it looks to me like another new one! I wouldn't have thought baby-blue would be so becomin' to you, Sylvia. I always fancied it for a blonde, mostly, but there! you've got such lovely skin, anything looks well on you. Do you like petunias? Scarcely anyone has them, an' cinnamon pinks, an' johnnie-jump-ups any more—it's all sweet-peas, an' nasturtiums, an' such! But to me there ain't any flower any handsomer than a big purple petunia."

"I like them too—and it doesn't matter if my dress does get dirty—it'll wash. Now about Edith—"

"Why, Sylvia, you know how I hate to deny you anything, but I don't see how I can spare her! Here it is hayin'-time, the busiest time of the year, an' Austin an' Peter both gone. I haven't a word to say against them young fellows that Thomas has fetched home from college to help while our boys are gone, they're well-spoken, obligin' chaps as I ever see, but the work don't go the same as it do when your own folks is doin' it, just the same. Besides, Sally's not here to help like she's always been before, summers, an' it makes a pile of difference, I can tell you. Molly can play the piano somethin' wonderful, an' Katherine can spout poetry to beat anything I ever heard, but Edith can get out a whole week's washin' while either one of 'em is a-wonderin' where she's goin' to get the hot water to do it with, an' she's a real good cook! I never see a girl of her years more capable, if I do say so, an' she always looks as neat an' pretty as a new pin, whatever she's doin', too. Why don't you come over to us, if you're lonely? We'd all admire to have you! There, we've got that row cleaned out real good—s'posin' we tackle the candytuft, now, if you feel like it."

Sylvia would gladly have offered to pay for a competent "hired girl," but she did not dare to, for fear of displeasing Austin. So she wrote to Uncle Mat to postpone his prospective visit, to the great disappointment of them both, and filled her tiny house with young friends instead, urging Edith to spend as much time helping her "amuse" them as she could, to the latter's great delight. Unfortunately the girl and one of the boys whom she had invited were already so much interested in each other that they had eyes for no one else, and the other fellow was a quiet, studious chap, who vastly preferred reading aloud to Sylvia to canoeing with Edith. The girl was somewhat piqued by this lack of appreciation, and quickly deserted Sylvia's guests for the more lively charms of Hugh Elliott's red motor and Jack Weston's spruce runabout. Mr. and Mrs. Gray saw no harm in their pet's escapades, but, on the contrary, secretly rejoiced that the humble Peter was at least temporarily removed and other and richer suitors occupying the foreground. They were far from being worldly people, but two of their daughters having already married poor men, they, having had more than their own fair share of drudgery, could not help hoping that this pretty butterfly might be spared the coarser labors of life.

Sylvia longed to write Austin all about it, but she could not bring herself to spoil his trip by speaking slightingly, and perhaps unjustly, of his favorite sister's conduct. As she had rather feared, the short trip originally planned proved so instructive and delightful that it was lengthened, first by a few days and then by a fortnight, so that one week in August was already gone before he returned. He came back in holiday spirits, bubbling over with enthusiasm about his trip, full of new plans and arrangements. His enthusiasm was contagious, and he would talk of nothing and allow her to talk of nothing except themselves.

"My, but it's good to be back! I don't see how I ever stayed away so long."

"You didn't seem to have much difficulty—every time you wrote it was to say you'd be gone a little longer. I suppose some of those New York farmers have pretty daughters?"

"You'd better be careful, or I'll box your ears! What mischief have you been up to? I've heard rumors about some bookish chap, who read Keats's sonnets, and sighed at the moon. You see I'm informed. I'll take care how I leave you again."

"You had better. I won't promise to wait for you so patiently next time."

"Don't talk to me about patient waiting! Sylvia, is it really, honestly true I've only got three more weeks of it?"

"It's really, honestly true. Good-night, darling, you must go home."

"And you've only got three weeks more of being able to say that! I suppose I must obey—but remember, you'll have to promise to obey pretty soon."

"I'll be glad to. Austin—"

"Yes, dear—Sylvia, I think your cheeks are softer than ever—

"I don't think Edith looks very well, do you?"

"Why, I thought she never was so pretty! But now you speak of it she does seem a little fagged—not fresh, the way you always are! Too much gadding, I'm afraid."

"I'm afraid so. Couldn't you—?"

"My dear girl, leave all that to Peter—I've got my hands full, keeping you in order. Sylvia, there's one thing this trip has convinced me we've got to have, right away, and that's more motors. We've got the land, we've got the buildings, and we've got the stock, but we simply must stop wasting time and grain on so many horses—it's terribly out of date, to say nothing else against it. We need a touring-car for the family, and a runabout for you and me,—do sell that great ark of yours, and get something you can learn to run yourself, and that won't use half the gasoline,—and a tractor to plough with, and a truck to take the cream to the creamery."

"Well, I suppose you'll let me give these various things for Christmas presents, won't you? You're so awfully afraid that I'll contribute the least little bit to the success of the farm that I hardly dare ask. But I could bestow the tractor on Thomas, the truck on your father, and the touring-car on the girls, and certainly we'll need the runabout for all-day trips on Sundays—after the first of September."

"All right. I'll concede the motors as your share. Now, what will you give me for a reward for being so docile?"

She watched him down the path with a heart overflowing with happiness. Twice he turned back to wave his hand to her, then disappeared, whistling into the darkness. She knelt beside her bed for a long time that night, and finally fell into a deep, quiet sleep, her hand clasping the little star that hung about her throat.

Three hours later she was abruptly awakened, and sat up, confused and startled, to find Austin leaning over her, shaking her gently, and calling her name in a low, troubled voice.

"What is it? What has happened?" she murmured drowsily, reaching instinctively for the dressing-gown which lay at the foot of the bed. Austin had already begun to wrap it around her.

"Forgive me, sweetheart, for disturbing you—and for coming in like this. I tried the telephone, and called you over and over again outside your window—you must have been awfully sound asleep. I was at my wits' end, and couldn't think of anything to do but this—are you very angry with me?"

"No, no—why did you need me?"

"Oh, Sylvia, it's Edith! She's terribly sick, and she keeps begging for you so that I just had to come and get you! She was all right at supper-time—it's so sudden and violent that—"

Sylvia had slipped out of bed as if hardly conscious that he was beside her. "Go out on the porch and wait for me," she commanded breathlessly; "you've got the motor, haven't you? I won't be but a minute."

She was, indeed, scarcely longer than that. They were almost instantly speeding down the road together, while she asked, "Have you sent for the doctor?"

"Yes, but there isn't any there yet. Dr. Wells was off on a confinement case, and we've had to telephone to Wallacetown—she was perfectly determined not to have one, anyway. Oh, Sylvia, what can it be? And why should she want you so?"

"I don't know yet, dear."

"Do you suppose she's going to die?"

"No, I'm afraid—I mean I don't think she is. Why didn't I take better care of her? Austin, can't you drive any faster?"

As they reached the house, she broke away from him, and ran swiftly up the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Gray were both standing, white and helpless with terror, beside their daughter's bed. She was lying quite still when Sylvia entered, but suddenly a violent spasm of pain shook her like a leaf, and she flung her hands above her head, groaning between her clenched teeth. Sylvia bent over her and took her in her arms.

"My dear little sister," she said.