Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' as a real, live
man, instead of a nebulous 'party of the second part' in the marriage
ceremony?" queried Peggy, as she hemmed table-napkins for Aunt Olivia,
sitting on her well-scoured sandstone steps, and carefully putting all
thread-clippings and ravellings into the little basket which Aunt Olivia
had placed there for that purpose.

"It may transform her from a self-centered old maid into a woman for
whom marriage does not seem such an incongruous thing," I said.

The day on which Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was expected Peggy and I went
over. We had planned to remain away, thinking that the lovers would
prefer their first meeting to be unwitnessed, but Aunt Olivia insisted
on our being present. She was plainly nervous; the abstract was becoming
concrete. Her little house was in spotless, speckless order from top to
bottom. Aunt Olivia had herself scrubbed the garret floor and swept the
cellar steps that very morning with as much painstaking care as if she
expected that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson would hasten to inspect each at
once and she must stand or fall by his opinion of them.

Peggy and I helped her to dress. She insisted on wearing her best black
silk, in which she looked unnaturally fine. Her soft muslin became her
much better, but we could not induce her to wear it. Anything more prim
and bandboxy than Aunt Olivia when her toilet was finished it has never
been my lot to see. Peggy and I watched her as she went downstairs, her
skirt held stiffly up all around her that it might not brush the floor.

"'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' will be inspired with such awe that he will
only be able to sit back and gaze at her," whispered Peggy. "I wish he
would come and have it over. This is getting on my nerves."

Aunt Olivia went into the parlour, settled herself in the old carved
chair, and folded her hands. Peggy and I sat down on the stairs to
await his coming in a crisping suspense. Aunt Olivia's kitten, a fat,
bewhiskered creature, looking as if it were cut out of black velvet,
shared our vigil and purred in maddening peace of mind.

We could see the garden path and gate through the hall window, and
therefore supposed we should have full warning of the approach of Mr.
Malcolm MacPherson. It was no wonder, therefore, that we positively
jumped when a thunderous knock crashed against the front door and
re-echoed through the house. Had Mr. Malcolm MacPherson dropped from the
skies?

We afterwards discov