o my
child by crying at her wedding? No, she's not in--she's at the Bertrams.
But there's her ring now at the hall-door. Good-night, neighbors both.
You mean it kindly, but don't stay just now. I have a word or two to say
to the girl in private to-night."

"I think that's Martha's voice," said Miss Peters. "Don't say that I
told you anything, Mrs. Meadowsweet."

The door was opened, and Mrs. Butler came in.

This good woman, who led the army of the Beatricites, had now attained
to all the airs of a victorious general. Her bonnet-strings were thrown
back, her face was flushed, and her throat, conspicuous by the absence
of her large white brooch, was bared to view.

"Well, my friend," she said. "Well, the time is near."

She took Mrs. Meadowsweet's fat hand, squeezed it hard, and looked with
awful solemnity into her eyes.

"Good gracious," said the poor woman. "I never felt more exasperated in
all my life. Any one would suppose that my girl was drowned in the
harbor from the faces you one and all bring me."

"Mrs. Meadowsweet," said Mrs. Butler, "there is such a thing as having
the body safe and well, and the character drowned."

Mrs. Meadowsweet's cheeks flushed deeply.

"I'll thank you to explain yourself, Martha Butler," she said. "Whose
character is drowned?"

"No one's," said Mrs. Butler. "Or at least, no one who belongs to us."

Here she waved one of her arms in theatrical style.

"I have fought for that girl," she said, "as my sister Maria can bear
testimony, and my friend Mrs. Morris can vouch---I have fought for her,
and I may truly say I have brought her through a sea of slander--yes,
through a sea of slander--victorious. Now, who's that? Who's coming to
interrupt us?"

"It's only me, Mrs. Butler," said Beatrice. She came quietly into the
room. Her face was white, but its expression was serene, and almost
happy.

"It's you, Bee, at last," said her mother.

She went straight up to the girl, and taking one of her hands raised it
to her lips.

"You have come, Bee," she said in a purring cone of delight and content.
"My girl has come at last, neighbors, and now I'll wish you, every one,
a very good-night. I'm obliged for all sympathy, and if I don't
understand these new-fashioned ways about weddings with their poor
dears, and their poor friends, and drowning of somebody's character, and
saving of somebody else's character, it's because I'm old-fashioned, and
belong to an ancient school. Good-nig