nly smiled indulgently.
The rest of the party were young people, and their glee brooked no
repression. The moment they reached the little platform they comprehended
not only that they were coming to a most informal wedding--they were also
in for a decidedly novel lark.

Close to the edge of the platform stood a great hay-wagon, cushioned with
fragrant hay and garlanded with goldenrod and purple asters. Standing
erect on the front, one hand grasping the reins which reached out over a
four-in-hand of big, well-groomed, flower-bedecked farm horses, the other
waving a triumphant greeting to his friends, was Anthony Robeson, in white
from head to foot, his face alight with happiness and fun. He looked like
a young king; there could be no other comparison for his splendid outlines
as he towered there. And better yet, he looked as he had ever looked,
through prosperity and through poverty, like a "Robeson of Kentucky."

Below him, prettier than she had ever been--and that was saying much--her
eyes brilliant with the spirit of the day, laughing, dressed also in
white, a big white hat drooping over her brown curls, stood Juliet Marcy.

In a storm of salutations and congratulations the guests rushed toward
this extraordinary equipage and the radiant pair who were its charioteers.
All regrets over the probable commonplaceness of a small country wedding
had vanished.

[Illustration: "Standing erect ... one hand grasping the reins ... was
Anthony Robeson."]

"Might have known they would do things up in shape somehow," grunted the
Bishop's son approvingly. "This is the stuff. Conventionality be tabooed.
They're going to the other extreme, and that's the way to do. If you don't
want an altar and candles, and a high-mucky-muck at the organ, have a
hay-wagon. _Gee!_--Let me get up here next to Ben Hur and the lady!"

Even the Bishop, sitting with clerical coat-tails carefully parted, his
handsome face beaming benevolently from under his round hat, and Mrs.
Bishop, granted by special dispensation a cushion upon the hay seat,
enjoyed that drive. Anthony, plying a long, beribboned lash, aroused his
heavy-footed steeds into an exhilarating trot, and the hay-wagon, carrying
safely its crew of young society people in their gayest mood, swept over
the half-mile from the station to the house like a royal barge.

As they drew up a chorus of "Oh's!" not merely polite but sincerely
surprised and admiring, recognised the quaint beauty of the