other
and then on to carry out his impetuous and romantic scheme of routing
out the town clerk and announcing his intended marriage. 345

Waitstill slept like the shepherd boy in "The Pilgrim's Progress," with
the "herb called Heart's Ease" in her bosom. She opened her eyes next
morning from the depths of Mrs. Mason's best feather bed, and looked
wonderingly about the room, with all its unaccustomed surroundings.
She heard the rattle of fire-irons and the flatter of dishes below; the
first time in all her woman's life that preparations for breakfast had
ever greeted her ears when she had not been an active participator in
them.

She lay quite still for a quarter of an hour, tired in body and mind,
but incredibly happy in spirit, marvelling at the changes wrought in
her during the day preceding, the most eventful one in her history. Only
yesterday her love had been a bud, so closely folded that she scarcely
recognized its beauty or color or fragrance; only yesterday, and now
she held in her hand a perfect flower. When and how had it grown, and by
what magic process?

The image of Ivory had been all through the night in the foreground of
her dreams and in her moments of wakefulness, both made blissful by the
heaven of anticipation that dawned upon her. Was ever man so wise,
so tender and gentle, so strong, so comprehending? What mattered the
absence of worldly goods, the presence of care and anxiety, when n woman
had a steady hand to hold, a steadfast heart to trust, a man who would
love her and stand by her, whate'er befell?

Then the face of Ivory's mother would swim into the mental picture; the
pale face, as white as the pillow it lay upon; the face with its aureole
of ashen hair, and the wistful blue eyes that begged of God and her
children some peace before they closed on life.

The vision of her sister was a joyful one, and her heart was at peace
about her, the plucky little princess who had blazed the way out of the
ogre's castle.

She saw Patty clearly as a future fine lady, in velvets and satins and
furs, bewitching every-body by her gay spirits, her piquant vivacity,
and the loving heart that lay underneath all the nonsense and gave it
warmth and color.

The remembrance of her father alone on the hilltop did indeed trouble
Waitstill. Self-reproach, in the true sense of the word, she did not,
could not, feel. Never since the day she was born had she been fathered,
and daughterly love was absent; but she