ok into the already shadowy valley. But Johnnie's thoughts were there
all through the drive home, and even when she started with her beaming
husband and her four young children to the wedding she was still
thinking of Shandon Waters.

The Dickey home was all warmth, merriment, and joyous confusion. Three
or four young matrons, their best silk gowns stretched to bursting over
their swelling bosoms, went busily in and out of the dining-room. In
the double parlors guests were gathering with the laughter and kissing
that marked any coming together of these hard-working folk. Starched
and awed little children sat on the laps of mothers and aunts, blinking
at the lamps; the very small babies were upstairs, some drowsily
enjoying a late supper in their mothers' arms, others already deep in
sleep in Mrs. Dickey's bed. The downstairs rooms and the stairway were
decorated with wilting smilax and early fruit-blossoms.

To Deaneville it seemed quite natural that Dr. Lowell, across whose
face the scar of Shandon Waters' whip still showed a dull crimson,
should wait for his bride at the foot of the hall stairway, and that
Mary's attendants should keep up a continual coming and going between
the room where she was dressing and the top of the stairs, and should
have a great many remarks to make to the young men below. Presently a
little stir announced the clergyman, and a moment later every one could
hear Mary Dickey's thrilling young voice from the upper hallway:

"Arnold, mother says was that Dr. Lacey?"

And every one could hear Dr. Lowell's honest, "Yes, dear, it was," and
Mary's fluttered, diminishing, "All right!"

Rain began to beat noisily on the roof and the porches. Johnnie Larabee
came downstairs with Grandpa and Grandma Arnold, and Rosamund Dinwoodie
at the piano said audibly, "Now, Johnnie?"

There was expectant silence in the parlors. The whole house was so
silent in that waiting moment that the sound of sudden feet on the
porch and the rough opening of the hall door were a startlingly loud
interruption.

It was Shandon Waters, who came in with a bitter rush of storm and wet
air. She had little Dan in her arms. Drops of rain glittered on her
hanging braids and on the shawl with which the child was wrapped, and
beyond her the wind snarled and screamed like a disappointed animal.
She went straight through the frightened, parting group to Mrs.
Larabee, and held out the child.

"Johnnie," she said in a voice of agony