ften see the melodramas that appeared
from time to time at the small opera house. Occasionally, if something
really good came along, Oakdale society turned out in force and filled
the boxes and the orchestra seats; but, generally speaking, the little
theater was only half filled.

And such was the case on this Thanksgiving night. Most of the audience
was made up of farmers out holiday-making with their families, factory
girls from the silk mills and a few storekeepers and clerks.

"I am glad there are so few people here," observed Grace, looking around
the scanty audience; "because, if we have to resort to my scheme, it
will make it much easier and less dangerous."

"What in the world is it?" pleaded Jessica.

"Never mind," answered her friend. "I'm afraid you'll object, so I won't
tell until the last minute."

Just then a wheezy orchestra struck up a march and the High School party
settled down in their seats, each with a secret feeling that it was
rather good fun, in spite of the peculiar reason that had taken them
there.

"Here he is," said Nora, pointing to the name on the programme. "He
takes the part of Amos Lord, owner of the woolen mills."

At that moment the lights went down and the music stopped short. The
curtain rolled up slowly disclosing the front of a church. It was night
and lights gleamed through the stained glass windows. Snow was falling
and from the church came the sound of organ music playing the wedding
march. The picture was really very impressive, although the music was
somewhat throaty and the flakes of snow were larger than life-size.

But who was it half lying, half sitting on the church steps, shivering
with cold?

The girls had not been so often to the theater that they could afford to
be disdainful over almost any passable play, and from the very moment
the curtain went up their interest was aroused. Certainly, there was
something extremely romantic and interesting about the lonely little
figure on the church steps.

"That's the heroine," whispered Jessica. "Her name is Evelyn Chase."

Then people began to go into the church. It was a wedding evidently,
although the groom was a tall, lean, middle-aged individual with gray
hair.

"It's Mr. Pierson himself," exclaimed Nora in a loud whisper.

The bride-to-be was young and quite pretty. She was not dressed in
white, but it was plain she was the bride because she carried a bouquet
and hung on the arm of Anne's incorrigible paren