ndering glance at my face, "what's struck YOU? You look more upset
than I feel."

I believe I ordered him not to be an idiot. I know I did not "brace him
up" to any extent.

It was a very pretty wedding. At least every one said it was, although
they say the same of all weddings, I am told. Personally I was very
glad when it was over. Nellie whispered in my ear as I offered her my
congratulations, "We owe it all to you, Roscoe." George said nothing,
but the look he gave me as he wrung my hand was significant. For a
moment I forgot myself, forgot to be envious of those to whom the door
for happiness was not shut. After all I had opened the door for these
two, and that was something.

I walked as far as the corner with Lute and Dorinda. Dorinda's eyes were
red and her husband commented upon it.

"I thought a weddin' was supposed to be a joyful sort of thing," he
said, disgustedly. "It's usually cal'lated to be. Yet you and the rest
of the women folks set and cried through the whole of it. What in time
was there to cry about?"

"Oh, I don't know, Luther," replied Dorinda in, for her, an unusually
tolerant tone. "Perhaps it's because we've all been young once and can't
forget it."

"I don't forget, no more'n you do. I ain't so old that I can't remember
that fur back, I hope. But it don't make me feel like cryin'."

"Well, all right. We won't argue about it. Let's be pleasant as we can,
for once."

Now that is where Lute should have taken the hint and remained silent.
At least he should have changed the subject. But he was hot and
uncomfortable and, I suspect, his Sunday shoes were tight. He persisted.

"Huh!" he sniffed; "I don't see's you've given me no sensible reason for
cryin'. If I recollect right you didn't cry at your own weddin'."

His wife turned on him. She looked him over from head to foot.

"Didn't I?" she said, tartly. "Well, maybe not. But if I'd realized what
was happenin' to me, I should."

"Lute," said I, as I parted from them at the corner, "I am going to the
bank for a little while. Then I think I shall take a short run down the
bay in the Comfort. Did you fill her tank with gasolene as I asked you
to?"

Lute stopped short. "There!" he exclaimed, "I knew there was somethin' I
forgot. I'll do it soon's ever I get home."

"When you get home," observed Dorinda, firmly, "you'll wash that
henhouse window."

"Now, Dorinda, if that ain't just like you! Don't you hear Roscoe askin'
me about tha