y rolled her black eyes
and departed with her nose in the air.

And while they all chatted over the sealing of my fate I arose and had
my toilet made in my dressing room, in full hearing of the discussions
about the best groupings of bridesmaids and the horror at the count of
the cases of wine Billy had ordered from the city for the dinner to the
groomsmen the night before the wedding.

"I adore Mark seven-tenths full, but I don't like to endure the end of
the jag next morning," laughed Nell, as she began to put ribbons into
the bodkins for Letitia. I saw Harriet give her a long look from under
her half-lowered eyelashes as she hugged the Suckling closer to her
breast. Billy had told Harriet and me casually a few nights before that
"old Mark's drinking to a double-decker liver and a sidestep in his
heart."

"Oh, gentlemen always drink in moderation. I never worry over Cliff,"
said Letitia complacently, as she tied a decorative shoulder knot.

"You expect to give him a daily dose of three drops on a lump of sugar,
Letitia?" asked Harriet, as she exchanged glances with Jessie. One
evening last week Jessie and Harriet had motored Cliff in from the Club
just in time to save him from going over the riffles and Letitia had
been dancing with him without noticing his staggers.

"There, that is the very last stitch to be taken on your trousseau,
Charlotte," said Letitia, as she laid down the filmy garment she had
been adorning with blue bowknots. "Press it, Sallie, and lay it with the
rest of the set in the second tray of the medium-sized trunk. You can
lock it and give me the key."

"I just can't stand it, Charlotte," said Jessie to me in a low voice, as
I came from the hands of the skillful Sallie and stood beside the window
next to the desk. "You are all I have got and only you--you understand.
I can't give you up. I'm frightened."

"Hush--so am I," I answered her, as my hand gripped her shoulder under
her heavy linen frock until I felt it must bruise it. Then I turned to
the others, collected them and descended to finish breakfast with the
Poplars' guests.

Never a more radiantly beautiful morning had spread its loveliness over
the Harpeth Valley than the one I found out in the garden that
twenty-seventh day of September, the gala day in the history of
Goodloets. Huge white clouds drifted back and forth in a deep blue sky
and they were rosy at times with the sunlight, but from some of the
largest little tongues of