Selina Everest and the Mayor were married.

On one of the loveliest of autumn mornings, the somewhat mature bride had been united in the holy bonds of matrimony to the somewhat mature bridegroom, and now, in the old family mansion of the Everests, they were receiving the congratulations of their numerous friends. Selina had had a church wedding. That she insisted on, greatly to the distress and confusion of her modest husband. He had walked up the aisle of the church as if to his hanging. One minute he went from red to purple, from purple to violent perspiration, the next he became as if wrapped in an ice-cold sheet, and not until then could he recover himself.

But now it was all over. This congratulatory business was nothing compared to the agonizing experience of being in a crowded church, the shrinking[230] target for hundreds of criticizing, shining, awful eyes.

Yes, he was in an ecstasy to think the ordeal was over. Selina never would have made him go through it, if she had had the faintest conception of what his sufferings would be.

She had enjoyed it. All women enjoy that sort of thing. They are not awkward. How can they be, with their sweeping veils and trailing robes? He had felt like a fence-post, a rail—anything stiff, and ugly, and uncomfortable, and in his heart of hearts he wondered that all those well-dressed men and women had not burst into shouts of laughter at him.

Well, it was over—over, thank fortune. He never had been so glad to escape from anything in his life, as he had been to get out of the church and away from the crowd of people. That alone made him blissfully happy, and then, in addition, he had Selina.

He looked at her, and mechanically stretched out a hand to an advancing guest. Selina was his now. He not only was out of that church and never would have to go into it again for such a purpose as he had gone this morning, but Selina Everest was Mrs. Peter Jimson.

[231]

He smiled an alarming smile at her, a smile so extraordinarily comprehensive, that she hurriedly asked under her breath if he were ill.

“No,” he said, and, in so saying, clasped the hand of the advancing friend with such vigour, that the unhappy man retreated swiftly with his unspoken congratulations on his lips.

“I’m not ill,” he muttered. “I’m only a little flustered, Selina.”

“Here’s Mrs. Short,” she said, hastily, “be nice to her. She’s a particular friend of mine.”

“A fine day, ma’am,” murmured the Mayor; “yes, the crops seem good—ought to have rain, though.”

Over by a French window opening on the lawn, Berty and Tom were watching the people and making comments.

“Always get mixed up about a bride and groom,” volunteered Tom. “Always want to congratulate her, and hope that he’ll be happy. It’s the other way, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” murmured Berty. “Oh, isn’t it a dream to think that they’re both happy?”

“Makes one feel like getting married oneself,” said Tom.

[232]

“Yes, doesn’t it? A wedding unsettles me. All the rest of the day I wish I were a bride.”

“Do you?” exclaimed Tom, eagerly.

“Yes, and then the next day I think what a goose I am. Being married means slavery to some man. You don’t have your own way at all.”

“Men never being slaves to their wives,” remarked Tom.

“Men are by nature lordly, overbearing, proud-spirited, self-willed, tyrannical and provoking,” said Berty, sweepingly.

But Tom’s thoughts had been diverted. “Say, Berty, where do those Tomkins girls get money to dress that way? They’re visions in those shining green things.”

“They spend too much of their father’s money on dress,” replied Berty, severely. “Those satins came from Paris. They are an exquisite new shade of green. I forget what you call it.”

“I guess old Tomkins is the slave there,” said Tom; then, to avoid controversy, he went on, hastily, “You look stunning in that white gown.”

“I thought perhaps Selina would want me for a bridesmaid,” said Berty, plaintively, “but she didn’t.”

[233]

“Too young and foolish,” said Tom, promptly; “but, I say, Berty, where did you get the gown?”

“Margaretta gave it to me. I was going to wear muslin, but she said I shouldn’t.”

“What is it anyway?” said Tom, putting out a cautious finger to touch the soft folds.

“It’s silk, and if you knew how uncomfortable I am in it, you would pity me.”

“Uncomfortable! You look as cool as a cucumber.”

“I’m not. I wish I had on a serge skirt and a shirt-waist.”

“Let me get you something to eat,” he said, consolingly. “That going to church and standing about here are tiresome.”

“Yes, do,” said Berty. “I hadn’t any breakfast, I was in such a hurry to get ready.”

“Here are sandwiches and coffee to start with,” he said, presently coming back.

“Thank you—I am so glad Selina didn’t have a sit-down luncheon. This is much nicer.”

“Isn’t it! You see, she didn’t want speeches. On an occasion like this, the Mayor would be so apt to get wound up that he would keep us here till midnight.”

[234]

Berty laughed. “And they would have lost their train.”

“There isn’t going to be any train,” said Tom, mysteriously.

“Aren’t they going to New York?”

“No.”

“To Canada?”

“No.”

“To Europe?”

“No—Jimson says he isn’t going to frizzle and fry in big cities in this lovely weather, unless Selina absolutely commands, and she doesn’t command, so he’s going to row her up the river to the Cloverdale Inn.”

Berty put down her cup and saucer and began to laugh.

“Where are those sandwiches?” asked Tom, trying to peer round the cup.

“Gone,” said Berty, meekly.

He brought her a new supply, then came cake, jellies, sweets, and fruit in rapid succession.

Berty, standing partly behind a curtain by the open window, kept her admirer so busy that at last he partly rebelled.

“‘A RIVER STREET DELEGATION,’ SAID TOM”

“Look here, Berty,” he remarked, firmly, “I don’t want to be suspicious, but it’s utterly impossible[235] for a girl of your weight and education to dispose of so much provender at a single standing. You’re up to some tricks with it. Have you got some River Street rats with you?”

“Yes,” she said, smilingly. “Hush, don’t tell,” and, slightly pulling aside the curtain, she showed him four little heads in a clump of syringa bushes outside.

“Newsboy Jim, and Johnny-Boy, and the two girls, Biddy Malone and Glorymaroo, as we call her, from her favourite exclamation,” continued Berty; “they wanted to see something of the Mayor’s marriage, and I let them come. I’ve been handing out ‘ruffreshments’ to them. Don’t scold them, Tom.”

“Come right in, youngsters,” said the young man, heartily. “I’m sure Mr. Jimson is your Mayor as well as ours.”

Without the slightest hesitation, the four grinning children stepped in, and, marshalled by Tom, trotted across the long room to the alcove where Selina and the Mayor stood.

“A River Street delegation,” said Tom, presenting them, “come to offer congratulations to the chief executive officer of the city.”

Selina shook hands with them. The Mayor[236] smiled broadly, patted their heads, and the other guests, who had been bidden, without an exception kindly surveyed the unbidden, yet welcome ones.

The introduction over, Tom examined them from head to foot. The little rats were in their Sunday clothes. Their heads were sleek and wet from recent washing. There was a strong smell of cheap soap about them.

“This way, gentlemen and ladies,” he said, and he led them back to a sofa near Berty. “Sit down there in a row. Here are some foot-stools for you.

“Waiter,” and he hailed a passing black-coated man, “bring the best you have to these children, and, children, you eat as you never ate before.”

Berty stood silently watching him. “Tom Everest,” she rema............