the Crusades."

Although it was Linnet's wedding day Marjorie, the bridesmaid, was
attired in a gingham, a pretty pink and white French gingham; but there
were white roses at her throat and one nestled in her hair. The roses
were the gift of the groomsman, Hollis, and she had fastened them in
under the protest of Morris' eyes. Will and Linnet had both desired
Hollis to "stand up" with Marjorie; the bridesmaid had been very shy
about it, at first; Hollis was almost a stranger, she had seen him but
once since she was fourteen, and their letters were becoming more and
more distant. He was not as shy as Marjorie, but he was not easy and at
home with her, and never once dared to address the maiden who had so
suddenly sprung into a lovely woman with the old names, Mousie, or
Goosie. Indeed, he had nearly forgotten them, he could more readily have
said: "Miss Marjorie."

He had grown very tall; he was the handsomest among the brothers, with an
air of refinement and courtesy that somewhat perplexed them and set him
apart from them. Marjorie still prayed for him every day, that is, for
the Hollis she knew, but this Hollis came to her to-day a stranger; her
school-boy friend was a dream, the friend she had written to so long was
only her ideal, and this tall man, with the golden-red moustache, dark,
soft eyes and deep voice, was a fascinating stranger from the outside
world. She could never write to him again; she would never have the
courage.

And his heart quickened in its beating as he stood beside the white-robed
figure and looked down into the familiar, strange face, and he wondered
how his last letter could have been so jaunty and off-hand. How could he
ever write "Dear Marjorie" again, with this face in his memory? She was
as much a lady as Helen had been, he would be proud to take her among his
friends and say: "This is my old school friend."

But he was busy bringing chairs across the field at this moment and
Marjorie stood alone in the doorway looking down the dusty road. This
doorway was a fitting frame for such a rustic picture as a girl in a
gingham dress, and the small house itself a fitting background.

The house was a story and a half, with a low, projecting roof, a small
entry in the centre, and square, low-studded rooms on both sides, a
kitchen and woodshed stretched out from the back and a small barn stood
in the rear; the house was dazzling in the sun, with its fresh coat of
white paint, and the green bli