is eyes on Molly, so he'll not even know he's eating
my Kensington almond pudding with Thomas's old port in it," teased Aunt
Bettie with a laugh as I went across the street with them.

"There's going to be a regular epidemic of love affairs in Hillsboro, I
do believe," she continued in her usual strain of sentimental
speculation. "I saw Mr. Graves talking to Delia Hawes in front of the
draper's an hour ago, as I came out from looking at the blue chintz to
match Pet for the west wing, and they were both so absorbed they didn't
even see me. That was what might have been called a conflagration dinner
you gave the other night, Molly, in more ways than one. I wish a spark
had set off Benton Wade and Henrietta, too. Maybe it did, but is just
taking fire slowly."

I think it would be a good thing just to let Aunt Bettie blindfold every
unmarried person in this town and marry them to the first person they
touch hands with. It would be fun for her, and then we could have peace
and apparently as much happiness as we are going to have anyway. Mrs.
Johnson seemed to be in somewhat the same state of mind as I found
myself.

"Humph," she said as we went up the front steps, "I'll be glad when you
are married and settled, Molly Carter, so the rest of this town can
quiet down into peace once more, and I sincerely hope every woman under
fifty in Hillsboro who is already married will stay in that state until
she reaches that age. But come on in, both of you, and help me get this
marriage feast ready, if I must! The day is going by on greased wheels,
and I can't let Mr. Johnson's crotchets be neglected, Alfred or no
Alfred."

And from then on for hours and hours I was strapped to a torture wheel
that turned and turned, minute after minute, as it ground spice and
sugar and bridal meats and me relentlessly into a great suffering pulp.
Could I ever in all my life have hungered for food and been able to get
it past the lump in my throat that grew larger with the seconds? And if
Alfred's pudding tasted of the salt of Dead Sea fruit this evening, it
was from my surreptitious tears that dripped into it.

It was late, very late, before Mrs. Johnson realised it and shooed me
home to get ready to go to the train along with the brass band and all
the other welcomes.

I hurried all I could, but for long minutes I stood in front of my
mirror and questioned myself. Could this slow, pale, dead-eyed, slim,
drooping girl be the rollicking girl of a