"It isn't because he's six feet twoWith shoulders to match his height,That I'm happy and proud to be facing youOn this very eventful night."It isn't because his face is fine,Clear-cut, like a cameo,That I value the right to call him mineMore than any one here can know."It isn't because he's so very wise;We both could improve right there.His faults are plain to the kindest eyes,And I know that I have my share."He's not perfection—to hint at thisWould waken his scornful mirth.And yet he has made me—just as he is—The happiest girl on earth."I know he is built of the sterling stuffOf which manly men are made.And that glad certainty is enoughTo render me unafraid."As we scatter to go our devious waysLike sparks from the anvil hurled,I want you to think of me all your days,As the proudest girl in the world."
The applause that greeted Peggy's effort was not due chiefly to the quality of her verses, nor even to the charm of her undisguised happiness. The Editorial Staff of the Annual had leaked out. It had been whispered about that if it had not been for Peggy's protests, the Annual would have contained a satirical attack on a stricken man, which would have rendered its circulation impossible. The clapping died down, and then broke out again, as if to emphasize the fact that it was a personal tribute.
And so one after another, the girls in the enclosure introduced the possessors of the names they themselves would some day bear, and having finished, went laughing back to their seats. The photographs were passed about for examination and the ballots distributed.The voting was a somewhat protracted process due, doubtless, to the fact that so much was at stake. But in course of time the ballots were collected and the judges retired to count them, the girls filling in the interval with college songs.
The announcement of the result of the balloting came as a great surprise to Peggy. For the recipient of the stick pin was not Graham but Philip Carpenter. Judith, blushing very prettily, made the speech of acceptance in behalf of her fiancé, and took the pin.
"I wish to say to you all," said the class president, "that twenty-five dollars is deposited with the treasurer for the purchase of a wedding-present for the first of our number to marry. I can only say it can't be spent too soon to suit me. It's time," she added severely, "that somebody was disproving the slander that college women care only for civic reform and settlement work and teaching school, and that home and husbands don't matter to them at all."
Priscilla glanced discreetly in Peggy'sdirection, but Peggy was looking at the table. Indeed her expression remained thoughtful till the first toast was given, and she stood with the others to drink to her alma mater in a draught of fruit punch.
It was not till they were on their way home that Priscilla discovered the reason for Peggy's temporary abstraction. For while they were talking of something entirely different, Peggy suddenly exclaimed, "Do you suppose it was the uniform that dazzled them?"
"I don't quite understand you, Peggy."
"Why, that vote, you know. Of course Judith's lieutenant is a very good looking fellow, but the idea of comparing him to Graham."
Priscilla looked at her friend askance and said nothing.
"I have a photograph of Graham in uniform," Peggy continued, "and now I wish I'd brought that. But I hadn't any idea it would count so much."
"Peggy," began Priscilla faintly. "Will you promise not to be angry if I tell you something?"
"Of course. Why should I be angry?"
"Well, then, I voted for Philip Carpenter."
Peggy looked at her in seemingly speechless amazement. "But why?" she asked at last.
"Because—well, there could be only one reason for that, Peggy, because I thought him the handsomest man in the collection. His nose is wonderful."
"And so is Graham's. I never saw a more perfect nose."
"Philip's eyes are so big and beautiful."
"A littletoobig, it seems to me. It gives him a rather girly look. Now Graham's eyes are just large enough."
Priscilla burst into an irrepressible shriek of laughter. "I wonder if it ever occurred to you, Peggy, that you might be a little bit prejudiced."
It was plain that such an idea had never occurred to Peggy. She looked blank for a moment and then joined in Priscilla's helpless laughter. "I suppose," she owned when again she could find her voice, "that it's just as well that tastes differ."
They parted at Priscilla's door, kissing eachother good-night, a somewhat unusual ceremony, far they were not girls who made a parade of affection. Peggy, who had started toward her own home, suddenly turned back as if she had forgotten something. Priscilla hurried down the steps to meet her.
"Priscilla, do you realize that to-morrow is Commencement Day? What a little time it seems since we entered as Freshman. Don't you remember how scared we were, and how in awe of the Seniors? And now, Priscilla our school life is over."
And much to Priscilla's astonishment, and even more to her own, Peggy burst into tears.
Ratherto the surprise of those who knew her best, Peggy had decided on a church wedding. But when she came to give her reasons, the decision seemed characteristic, after all.
"I think this is the dearest house in the world. When Graham and I come back from South America, I hope we can find one just like it—and on Friendly Terrace, too. But it's not what you'd call spacious. A dozen extra people crowd it, and it makes you uncomfortable to have a wedding and leave out so many."
"Our wedding seems likely to be a unique affair," grinned Graham. "From the looks of Peggy's list, the guests will make up in variety what they lack in exclusiveness. What do you think of her asking the Bonds?"
"Now, Graham, that's not fair. I haven'tany idea of asking the Bond family. I only said that Elvira had improved so much that I felt like encouraging her by sending her an invitation."
"And the Dunns. She's got them down." For all matrimonial responsibilities loomed so close, Graham's boyish fondness for teasing remained one of his most prominent characteristics.
"Why, Graham Wylie! Not the Dunns at all. Just Jimmy! And he's doing so well and looks as nice as any boy."
"And she says she's going to have her Sunday school class, one and all."
"Well, I should think so. I've taught those girls ever since they came out of the infant room, and they're darlings. And it would break their hearts if I were married and they weren't there to see."
Now that her college life was over, Peggy had thrown herself joyously into her planning for the next thing. Ruth, as Graham's sister, was to be the maid of honor, Priscilla and Amy bridesmaids. They decided on their gowns after hours and hours of delicious deliberation.For a July wedding, organdie was the thing—the sheerest pale pink organdie, with pink roses to match on their wide hats. "You'll be dreams," Peggy declared ecstatically. "Everybody'll say so."
"Nonsense!" scoffed Amy, "As if people at a wedding ever looked at anybody but the bride!"
"I had a letter from Alice, yesterday," exclaimed Peggy, changing the subject. "She thinks little Irma had better be the flower-girl instead of Dorothy. She says Dorothy has been shooting up so fast lately, that now she's lanky and self-conscious, and that Irma is plump and adorable. I only hope dear little Dorothy won't feel left out. That would spoil everything."
Robert Carey was to be Graham's best man, a decision which pleased Peggy immensely. Most of the ushers were young men the girls knew more or less, though Graham had included in the number a comparative new-comer at the office, Kennedy by name, with whom he was on especially friendly terms. "You ought to bring him out some evening," suggestedPeggy, "and not wait till just before the wedding to introduce him."
"No, that's right. I'll ask him to-morrow to set a time."
When Graham appeared shortly after dinner the following evening, Peggy and Priscilla were addressing invitations. Graham seated himself lazily in the arm chair and congratulated them on their industry. "Have you addressed all that pile to-day?"
"Yes, sir. We've been working ever since I got back from the dressmaker's, about four o'clock. Priscilla stayed to dinner so as not to lose any time."
There was a brief silence. Two pairs of pens scratched busily while Graham entertained himself by watching the anxious pucker of Peggy's mouth as she wrote each new address. "By the way," he remarked, "He's coming out to-night."
"Who is?"
"Kennedy."
The scratching of the pens came to an abrupt stop. "Priscilla," Peggy cried in tones of horror, "Graham has asked that Mr. Kennedyto call and he's coming this evening."
"You told me to ask him," Graham defended himself.
"Of course, I want him to come. But I don't want him to descend on me without warning, and get the impression that you are going to marry a frump."
"Why, I was just thinking how nice you looked—both of you," Graham declared, kindly including Priscilla, who scorned to acknowledge the compliment. She rose, returned her pen to the writing desk, and said briefly, "I'm off."
"Put on your glad rags and come back, Priscilla," begged Peggy, who also was making preparations for a retreat.
"Oh, I think not. Mr. Kennedy isn't coming to see me."
"It'll be ever so much nicer if he meets some of you before the last minute. Ruth says she's got to put in this evening letter writing, and Amy and Bob are going somewhere."
"Oh, very well. I'll be back after a little." Priscilla spoke nonchalantly, but as a matter of fact, she was glad of Peggy's insistence.Now that the time was growing so short, she grudged every hour she was away from her friend. As she left by the door, Peggy ran up the stairs, leaving Graham to the companionship of his own agreeable anticipations.
Peggy was back in about twenty minutes, looking, in Graham's estimation, very much the same, except that her dress was a lighter blue than the other, and her hair, having been freshly combed, did not show as much of the curl. He expressed his opinion and Peggy smiled tolerantly.
"I wore that old thing because a drop of ink more or less wouldn't matter. It's as old as the hills, and I made it when I didn't know as much about dress-making as I do now. Of course I like to have you think I look nice, no matter what I wear, but now you're going to be married, you'd better learn more discrimination in regard to clothes. It would be dreadful to have a new dress and you not able to see that it was any prettier than the old one."
"Very well. Suppose you start on my education right away. Tell me the fine points about the rig you've got on." But beforePeggy could begin, the bell rang, and Graham's education was left incomplete for the time being.
Mr. Kennedy was a slender, pleasant-mannered young man, who looked considerably older than Graham, partly perhaps, because he wore eye-glasses. As Peggy greeted him, she was conscious of something hauntingly familiar in his face. "I haven't met you before, have I?" she asked.
"It hardly seems that I could have met you and not remember it," said young Kennedy gallantly. "I'm very sure I've seen you before, however."
"And I believe I've seen you, but I don't know where."
"Hitchcock would say," remarked Graham, "that probably you had been well acquainted in Nineveh or Babylon or some other ancient burg."
Mr. Kennedy smiled, and took the chair Graham had pulled forward for him. "Who's Hitchcock?" he asked.
"Oh, a nut that Peggy used to have here till I told her she'd have to choose between us."
"Graham, what a misleading thing to say."
"Well, it might give the wrong impression, I confess. Peggy didn't care much about him herself, but one of her friends had a case on him."
"Sh!" warned Peggy, in an agony as she heard Priscilla's footsteps outside. She filled the somewhat awkward pause by springing to her feet, crying as she ran to the door, "You needn't ring; I hear you."
The results of the half hour Priscilla had given to vanity were more evident, Graham thought, than in Peggy's case. Peggy could be disheveled and still irresistible. Priscilla's rather stately beauty was more exacting in its demands. In her dress of pale green voile, which set off her clear pallor and the beauty of her smooth, dark hair, she looked the incarnate spirit of spring. Even Graham stared.
Peggy, her arm slipped caressingly through Priscilla's, led her forward. "Priscilla, this is Graham's friend, Mr. Kennedy. Miss Combs—"
Peggy stopped short. Priscilla had jumped. Mr. Kennedy's conventional smile had changedto startled recognition. "Why, you know each other," Peggy cried.
"Only—why, surely, Peggy, you remember."
Peggy's vague, irritating certainty of something familiar in Mr. Kennedy's face was suddenly transformed to recollection. "Oh, of course. The Green Parrot."
"Oh, of course! The Green Parrot!" mocked Graham, who had risen on Priscilla's entrance, and now stood looking from one to another of the trio. "Makes it perfectly clear."
They took their seats, and Peggy explained, helped out by suggestions from the others. As they recalled the absurd experience, the three narrators went off into fits of laughter, but the audience maintained a dignified calm.
"Take my word for it, John, it's an inscrutable sex. Now, I would have sworn that this young woman hadn't a thought I didn't share, and look what she's been keeping from me, lo! these many months. When we're alone I shall expect you to give me a full account of what really happened."
For some reason the discovery that Graham's friend, Kennedy, was the young man whose coffeecup had been invaded by Priscilla's roll seemed to put him at once on the footing of an old acquaintance. They had a very jolly evening, and it was not till after ten that Priscilla said, "Graham, I think you'd better take me home, now. I've got a busy day before me."
"You have indeed, poor dear," Peggy cried. "I expect you to finish addressing those invitations and do any number of errands. These are trying times for my friends, Mr. Kennedy. They have hardly a minute in the twenty-four hours that they can call their own."
The young man smiled at her in the abstracted fashion of one whose thoughts are on something else. "Won't you let me be your escort?" he asked Priscilla. "It would give me the greatest pleasure."
"Thanks, but it's only a step, and my going early won't break up Graham's evening, for he'll come directly back." She softened her refusal by giving him her hand and saying pleasantly, "I'm glad to have met you properly at last, with a real introduction, you know."
"I shall look forward to the next time," saidyoung Kennedy, with rather more ardor than conventional courtesy required. "This is our third meeting, I believe."
"Third?" exclaimed Peggy, pricking up her ears. "Why, when was the second?"
"At one of the football games last fall," explained Priscilla. "I was there with Horace Hitchcock, and Mr. Kennedy sat next me." And then recalling the suspicious glances Horace had shot in the direction of the guiltless Mr. Kennedy, Priscilla began to blush. The worst of blushing is that it is much easier to start it than to call a halt. There were innumerable things connected with the thought of Horace that made Priscilla uncomfortable, and now she found herself blushing for them all. The tide of color flooded her smooth forehead and dyed her throat. Peggy's observant eyes detected an unmistakable shadow on Mr. Kennedy's erst-while radiant face.
Later, when Graham and herself were alone, she scolded him a little. "You oughtn't to have said that a friend of mine had a case on Hitchcock. Now Mr. Kennedy knows you meant Priscilla."
"Well, is that such a tragedy?"
"Couldn't you mention to him some day that Horace did admire Priscilla, but that now he's safely married to another. You could bring it in in a casual way, you know."
Graham looked at her hard. "My dear Peggy," he said, "Just because you yourself have been fortunate—unusually fortunate I might say—in your love affairs, don't let that lead you into trying your hand at matchmaking. Fooling with high explosives is child's play compared to that, believe me."
But instead of seeming impressed by the warning, Peggy only answered dreamily, "When he doesn't see Horace at the wedding, he'll probably begin to suspect that it's ancient history. If only Priscilla could learn to speak of him without blushing."
Itwas two days before Peggy's wedding, and in the front room downstairs Peggy was looking around complacently on her wedding presents. They were very much like the wedding presents of other prospective brides. A few were admirably suited to the needs of a young couple of moderate means, about to start house-keeping. Others would have been useful in the establishments of wealthy people who expected to do a great deal of entertaining. And there were still others whose use was problematical, anywhere and under any circumstances.
Peggy's mood, however, was far from critical. Each gift as it came had given her the keenest pleasure, and if it were impossible to find anything admirable in the article itself, she could always say, "How awfully kind of them to send it. Everybody's being perfectly dear to me."She approached every newly arrived package with the same feeling with which she had once taken up a bulging Christmas stocking.
The clock in the dining room, a pert little timepiece with a peremptory voice, struck three. It was characteristic of this particular clock always to strike the hour as if it were reminding somebody of something. On this occasion it reminded Peggy that she had an engagement with the dressmaker at half past three, and that she was to call for Ruth, who had promised to accompany her. As it was impossible to take along a crowd of girls to the dressmaker's rather cramped quarters, Peggy avoided hard feeling by inviting a different girl each day.
Peggy had hardly reached the top of the stairs when the bell rang, and Sally came rushing from the kitchen to answer it. The prospect of a wedding in the family had so excited Sally that she was even less responsible for her conduct than usual. Almost the only thing she could be trusted to do was to answer the door-bell, but as the bell rang very often, she succeeded in making herself rather useful. On this occasion a swarthy woman stood outside,and in a quick, parrot-like fashion said something Sally did not understand.
"You want to see Miss Peggy?" Sally demanded. Such wits as she possessed were not on duty, for ordinarily she would have recognized the stranger's errand, and sent her about her business. As the woman nodded, Sally at once admitted her, showing her into the room where the wedding presents stood about in picturesque confusion.
"Miss Peggy," shrieked Sally, forgetting for the moment the lesson impressed on her on innumerable occasions that she was not to save her steps by calling up the stairs, "Somebody to see you."
It was a minute or two before Peggy came down, and Sally had retreated to the kitchen in the meantime. Peggy who had naturally expected to see an acquaintance, was rather startled to be confronted by a dark-skinned woman with jet black eyes and an oily voice.
"Buy lace, lady? Very cheap: three inch wide up to nine inch. Very cheap!"
Peggy replied politely that she did not care for any lace, reflecting as she spoke that had thewoman presented herself a few months earlier, she might have thought it worth while to examine her stock. Having had some experience in the persistence of her kind, she was surprised when the dark woman took her refusal as final, and meekly let herself out. Peggy stepped into the kitchen to warn Sally against her late indiscretion, and came back through the hall, reflecting that she must hurry, since the dressmaker did not like to be kept waiting. As she passed the open door of the room the vender of lace had so lately quitted, she stopped and stood transfixed.
One of her wedding presents was missing. She knew exactly the place where it had stood on the center table, flanked on one side by a pair of book-ends, and on the other by a cloisonné vase. The gap left by its removal was as obvious to Peggy's startled eyes as the breach in a smile, due to a missing tooth. Instantly she understood that there was no mystery about its disappearance. She had seen it not ten minutes before, and the only person who had entered the room since then was the woman with lace to sell.
The discovery went to Peggy's head. The stealing of any of her other possessions would not have affected her in just the same way. But these were her wedding presents, invested with a certain sanctity because of the goodwill they represented, and the occasion which led to their bestowal. It never once occurred to Peggy that she could submit to such an outrage.
She ran out of the house, looking up and down the street, and immediately caught sight of the woman she wanted. Apparently she had suspended business for the day, for she was walking, rapidly and making no attempt to dispose of her wares in any of the houses she passed. Peggy promptly started in pursuit. Her idea was to follow the woman, keeping her in sight until she could encounter a policeman. Peggy had no desire to deprive any human creature, however erring, of her liberty. She hoped the officer of the law would force the surrender of her ill-gotten gains without formally arresting her. But whatever the consequences, she meant to recover her property.
According to the calendar it was the last dayof June, but the thermometer proclaimed it mid-July. The heated air quivered. The streets seemed as silent as the thoroughfares of a deserted village. A block from Peggy's home, the woman took the right-hand turning and went down Rossiter Street. Peggy followed, walking rapidly in her determination to gain on the quick-walking figure on ahead.
Three blocks on Rossiter Street, and then the woman turned north, giving Peggy a clew to her plan. Friendly Terrace lay near the outskirts of the city. A walk of a mile from Peggy's home brought one into a section sparsely settled. It looked as though Peggy's quarry were making for the open country.
Oh, for a policeman! Peggy rather unjustly resented the scarcity of officers of the law, forgetting how seldom their services were required in the law-abiding part of town. She discovered, too, that the woman pursued was uncannily aware of her pursuer. Though apparently she never looked back, she accommodated her pace to Peggy's, accelerating her speed, as Peggy quickened hers, so that the distance between them remained about thesame in spite of Peggy's efforts to lessen it.
Owing to the lack of policemen, had any reliable looking man passed her in a car, Peggy believed herself capable of stopping him and commandeering his services. But apparently the heat had driven every one indoors. Two or three delivery wagons passed with small boys handling the reins. One machine glided by, but the driver was a woman. After an hour's chase the two participants in the singular game of "Follow my Leader," came out upon the turnpike, stretching away to the north, white and dusty and hot in the brilliant sun. Here the houses were scattered and stood back from the road. The likelihood of encountering a policeman had become extremely faint. But Peggy set her teeth and pressed forward.
Graham got off half an hour early this particular afternoon, and reached Peggy's a little before five. Irma, dimpled and sweet, a replica of Dorothy a few years earlier, rushed to meet him squealing with delight, while Dorothy smiled a welcome, her lips pinched tightly together. One of Dorothy's upper front teeth was missing and Dorothy was painfullyconscious of the lack every minute that she was awake.
Graham kissed his prospective nieces, greeted the older members of the family cordially, if less effusively, and put the inevitable question, "Where's Peggy?"
"Oh, at the dressmaker's of course," sighed Mrs. Raymond. "I hope she won't keep the poor child very long. It's so dreadfully warm."
The telephone tinkled, and Dick went to answer it. He scowled as he listened. "Who did you say it was? Oh, wait a minute!" He turned to his mother. "I thought you said Peggy had gone to the dressmaker's."
"She has. She had a fitting at half past three."
"Well, this is the dressmaker, and she says Peggy hasn't come."
"Let me speak to her." Mrs. Raymond crossed to the phone, with an air of expecting to clear up the puzzle immediately. And hardly had she made herself known, when the door opened and Ruth appeared. "What's become of Peggy? She was to call for me a littleafter three, and I've had my hat on waiting for her nearly two hours."
What had become of Peggy? She had not kept her engagement with the dressmaker, and Ruth knew nothing of her whereabouts. Mrs. Raymond called up Priscilla and Amy, each of whom disavowed having seen Peggy since noon. And then as there seemed nothing better to do, she went on calling neighbors and friends and trades-people, growing more and more puzzled, moment by moment. For no one had seen Peggy.
It finally occurred to Peggy's sister, Alice, to make inquiries in the kitchen. Sally informed her that Miss Peggy had come into the kitchen with her hat on, and had said something about the dressmaker. The new girl, who had been engaged to help out for the few weeks before the wedding, confirmed Sally's story, adding that it was a little after three when Peggy left the house. Obviously Peggy had started out with the intention of keeping her appointment, and obviously she had not done so.
Dinner was ready at six o'clock, but no one was ready for dinner. Peggy's failure to appearat meal-time added to the general consternation. Peggy was by nature prompt and methodical, and she had acted the rôle of cook too often not to realize how the best efforts of that important functionary are frustrated by late arrivals. At quarter past six Mr. Raymond went to the telephone and called up the hospitals one after another. But the hot sleepy day had not been productive of automobile accidents, and the only cases of sun-strokes reported were elderly people, four men and one old woman.
Graham was very pale. A dreadful suspicion was taking shape in his mind. Could it be that, as the second of July drew near, Peggy had found herself unable to face the situation? Perhaps he had asked too much of her when he had urged her accompanying him to South America. He thought of the innumerable ties that bound her to her native land, and yet he had assumed that she would be ready to leave everything and every one she loved, and go with him to a land of strangers. Graham was no more troubled by excessive humility than other popular young men, but in the presentemergency he seemed to himself to have put a most preposterous estimate on the value of his own society. He had a horrible conviction that, through his demanding too much, Peggy was lost to him forever.
It hardly need be said that no one in the anxious company shared this particular apprehension. At seven o'clock Peggy's father made up his mind that it would be necessary to appeal to the police. But before he could bring himself to act on this conviction, the gate clicked and Irma, standing at the window, her nose flattened against the screen, exploded in a series of joyful shrieks.
"Aunt Peggy! Aunt Peggy! Oh, it's Aunt Peggy!"
And Peggy it was, though it took a second glance to be sure. The perspiration trickling over her dusty face had produced a curious piebald effect, and she walked with a noticeable limp. They rushed to the door, greeting her with mingled cries of joy and reproach. All but Graham. He sat down in the darkest corner of the living room and put his handsover his face. The intensity of his relief was almost too much for him.
Peggy limped in, looking decidedly ashamed of herself.
"Have you waited dinner for me? I'm awfully sorry."
"Waited dinner," repeated Mrs. Raymond, and burst into tears. Peggy's sister Alice caught her by the shoulders and gave her a sharp little shake.
"Peggy Raymond, where have you been and what have you been doing? Don't you understand that we've been frightened to death about you?"
Peggy dropped into the nearest chair and began on her story. She told of the woman Sally had admitted to the house, the missing wedding present, and the purpose with which she had started in pursuit. They all listened breathlessly, Graham left his corner and stood back of the others, unwilling to miss a word.
It was not till Peggy's recital brought her to the turnpike that she lost a little of her fluency. At this point she hesitated and seemed to appreciatethe difficulty of making matters clear to her audience. "Of course I should have given up then. But somehow I couldn't. I kept hoping that somebody would appear, and it seemed such a shame when I'd followed that thief so far, to give up and go back. I'd made up my mind that as soon as an automobile came along, I'd ask for a lift. I felt if I could only catch up with her I could frighten her into giving me what belonged to me. But nobody passed me, and then when she got to the old toll-gate—"
Mr. Raymond interrupted, "You don't mean you followed her to the toll gate?"
"Yes, father. Or at least I was almost there. You know there's a cross-road just beyond the gate, and a Ford car came up that cross-road and turned north on the pike. And the woman stopped it—"
"Confederates, I'll bet," cried Dick.
"No, it looked as if she were just asking some stranger for a ride. And as far as they knew she was only a tired woman carrying a bag and they took her in. And then I saw it wasn't any use to go further."
"You surprise me." Mr. Raymond's voice was satirical. "I can't understand why you didn't run after the machine."
Peggy accepted the sarcastic rejoinder meekly. "Then I turned around and came home. But you see I had put on my new brown shoes because Mrs. Morley wanted to fit my brown dress with the shoes I was going to wear with it, and all at once they began to hurt me terribly. Instead of hurrying I had to slow up, and sometimes I had to stop and wait. I never had anything hurt so."
"If you'd walked three blocks east," exclaimed Graham, speaking for the first time, "you could have got a car."
"I knew it, but I'd come off without my pocket book. I didn't have a penny with me. That was the reason I didn't telephone."
Peggy looked about her with a crestfallen air. While she was far from realizing the extent of the alarm her family had felt, and would not have believed Graham had he told her of the apprehensions that had tortured him through the terrible time of waiting, she understood that they had all been worried andthat she had inconvenienced every one by making dinner late. "Don't wait for me any longer," she pleaded. "Have the dinner put on, mother, and I'll be down as soon as I've washed up a little."
Mrs. Raymond put her arm about her. "Yes, come upstairs, darling. You must have something on those blisters right away. Alice, tell Sally to put on plates for Ruth and Graham."
It was while they were eating lamb chops, which after an hour and a half in the warming oven might as well have been anything else, that some one thought to put the question Peggy had been dreading. "Do you know what present she stole?"
Peggy took a hasty sip of her iced tea and looked appealingly at her questioner. But her reluctant manner only aroused the curiosity of every one.
"I'll bet it was the silver teapot," exclaimed Dick.
"It doesn't matter what's missing, as long as Peggy herself is here safe and sound," declared Mrs. Raymond fervently.
"But whatdidshe take?" insisted Alice, eyeing her sister with suspicion.
Again Peggy forfeited herself with iced tea, and her cheeks, flushed by heat and weariness, took on a deeper hue. "It—it really wasn't so valuable,—" stammered Peggy. "You know Elvira Bond gave me half a dozen teaspoons that she got by saving soap wrappers or something. They came in a neat little case, and I suppose the woman snatched the nearest thing without looking. I didn't chase her because the spoons were worth so much because—well, it was the principle of the thing."
There was a long moment of silence, and then a roar of laughter. They laughed long and helplessly and wiped their eyes and started all over again. As a rule Peggy could appreciate a joke, even if it was against herself, but on this occasion a rather wry smile was the best she could do. She was beginning to realize that she had been very silly.
"Well, Graham," remarked Mr. Raymond when he could make himself heard, "In my opinion you're assuming quite a responsibilityin planning to take this young woman to South America."
Graham's eyes met Peggy's and something in his look arrested her attention, a peculiar radiance as if he had just heard a wonderful piece of news. But all he said was, "I'm ready to take the risk, sir."
Peggy'sbrother Dick had parodied an old rhyme to fit the occasion and sang it with gusto, in season and out of season. It was Dick's voice, caroling in a high falsetto, and breaking ludicrously on an average of once a line, that woke Peggy on the most eventful morning of her life.
"A wedding day in MayIs worth a load of hay.A wedding set for JuneIs worth a silver spoon.A wedding in JulyIsn't worth a fly."
Peggy winked hard and sat up in bed, turning instantly toward the east windows. "Oh," she cried joyously, "what a glorious day!" And so indeed it was. Apparently the weather man had carefully selected whatever was bestin all the year, and combined his selections into one perfect day in honor of Peggy's wedding. There had been a little rain the night before, and the air was as sweet as if perfumed by June's roses. There was a freshness that suggested early spring, and something in the breeze as exhilarating as October. Peggy reflected complacently that this was just her luck.
She wondered, as she dressed, what she was to do with herself between the hours of eight and six. Her trunk was packed for going away, and the other trunks were ready except for a few articles to be added at the last minute. She had acknowledged every gift she had received. The dressmaker was through with her, and the wedding dress was hanging in Peggy's closet, with a sheet draped over it that no speck of dust should mar its immaculate whiteness. Peggy decided that her wedding day was to be characterized by elegant leisure.
Of course this expectation was not realized. To begin with, there were more presents. They came by parcels post and by express. Deliverymen handed them over as nonchalantly as if they had been ordinary purchases. Otherscame by special messengers, who grinned knowingly when Peggy signed for them. Breakfast was hardly over when it was necessary to send for Graham, that he might assist in opening the packages. But Graham was not as satisfactory in opening packages as a number of other people, Priscilla and Amy, for instance. If Peggy cried "Isn't that beautiful?" he always looked straight at her as he said "yes," and then it was necessary to remind him that he was supposed to be admiring a piece of silverware or glass. Peggy always said, "How beautiful!" when a package was opened. And then if the article were something she really wanted, she would add, "Isn't it lucky, Graham, that some one thought of that? I don't see how we could have kept house without it." And if it were something quite unsuitable she would cry, "How kind everybody is. I never saw anything like it."
The present from Peggy's college class came the morning of the wedding day, when it was practically certain that no one was to be married in advance of Peggy. It was a veryattractive silver vase, with the class motto engraved about its base. Peggy's delight was marred by one characteristic reflection. "I have so many things. It's almost a pity this didn't go to some girl whose friends weren't so generous."
"Any one could have had it," Graham reminded her, "who was ready to take the risk. This is in recognition of your courage, like the Victoria Cross."
Of course the wedding presents were not going to South America, but were to be stored against the young people's return. "Don't you hate to go away and leave all these lovely things, Graham?" Peggy asked, stroking the gleaming sides of a copper bowl as if it had been a kitten. And then with her usual happy faculty for seeing the bright side, she added, "But think of coming home and finding them waiting for us! Why, it'll be like getting married all over again."
Wedding presents, however, were not to occupy Peggy's thoughts to the exclusion of other matters. All sorts of affectionate messages kept coming, special deliveries, telegrams,telephone calls. A girl like Peggy, who for twenty-one years and over has been helping to make the world a happier place, is likely to be surprised when she comes to count up her friends. Elaine Marshall, who had moved from the city and now lived with her married sister, came down for the day. "I couldn't stand it, not to be at your wedding, Peggy," she declared. And Lucy Haines walked in about noon, looking so radiant that Peggy at once suspected an especial reason. There was a little pearl ring on the third finger of Lucy's left hand that Peggy had never seen before. Lucy blushed when she saw Peggy's contemplative gaze focused on it.
"Yes, Peggy, it's—it's Jerry," owned Lucy, looking so proud and happy that she did not seem even distantly related to the disheartened girl who had once thought it was no use trying. "He's grown into such a splendid fellow. Everybody says I'm so lucky. And, Peggy, if it hadn't been for the summer you spent at Doolittle Cottage, it's not likely that either of us would ever have amounted to anything."
Mary Donaldson called up to say that shewas coming to the wedding. Her father and cousin had promised to carry her downstairs, and they were going early so she could be in her place before any one else arrived. "I don't believe you're a bit more excited than I am, Peggy," Mary laughed. And another surprise was when Uncle Philander and his wife drove into town, with a bushel or two of flowers piled about them in the buggy.
"They're not such awful stylish flowers," beamed Aunt Phoebe. "Of course there's a few roses, but most of our bushes bloomed themselves 'most to death in June and haven't done much since. The rest are just everyday posies, so to speak, but they'll make little bright spots around the house, and anyway, you can't have too many flowers at a wedding."
At four o'clock the bridesmaids went home to dress. The mother of the flower girl pounced on her and carried her upstairs.
"Peggy, dear," said Mrs. Raymond warningly.
"Just a minute mother. I want to tell Graham something." Peggy led her lover into a corner and whispered in his ear, "Don't youwant to come back and get a glimpse of me after I'm dressed."
"Well rather."
"Because you know, if you don't like me," dimpled Peggy, "it's not too late to change your mind." She was inclined to be reproachful when Graham caught her in his arms and kissed her before everybody, but Graham insisted it was her own fault, and on reflection Peggy decided he was right.
At six o'clock the little church was well filled. In spite of Graham's teasing, Peggy's humble friends could hardly be distinguished from their so-called betters. Hildegarde Carey, slender and elegant, sat in the pew behind Elvira Bond, and noticed nothing peculiar except that Elvira blew her nose oftener and with more emphasis than is customary on such occasions. It was either that or weep, and Elvira chose the least of the two evils. As for Jimmy Dunn, with his purple necktie and a large scarfpin that resembled a diamond, he was fairly resplendent.
The march pealed out and the people rose. Up the aisle came the bridesmaids walkingvery slowly. The little flower girl, all smiles, seemed as unconscious as if weddings were an old story in her experience. And then came Peggy on her father's arm, and Elvira Bond was not the only one whose eyes brimmed over as she passed.
A great deal can happen in five minutes. The organ pealed out again, and now Peggy was Mrs. Graham Wylie. She put her hand on her husband's arm and smiled up into his face, Peggy's own sunny smile. She had promised for better or for worse, but in her heart of hearts she was confident that the future held only good for the two of them. And as Graham was equally positive on that score, they went down the aisle with illumined faces.
Only a few besides the two families came to the house from the church. These, with the out-of-town guests like Elaine and Lucy, and the wedding party, filled the cosy little house to overflowing. Mary Donaldson sat in a corner, radiant; and since she could not cross the room to kiss the bride, the bride crossed to kiss her.
It was after the chicken salad had been disposedof, and they were passing the ice cream, that Peggy's attention focussed itself on her new friend, Mr. Kennedy. He stood by himself for the moment and his face was rather grave for a young man, a guest at a wedding. But as he caught her eye, he smiled resolutely and came over to her.
"I'm sorry you're going away, Mrs. Wylie, just as I met you. It doesn't seem fair."
"I'm sorry, too," said Peggy. "If we'd only known that night at the Green Parrot that you were a friend of Graham's it would have simplified matters so much."
Mr. Kennedy's face again lost its smile. He turned and looked the company over. "Your friend Hitchcock isn't here to-night, is he?"
Peggy was delighted. She had been wishing for a chance to bring Horace into the conversation, and here Mr. Kennedy had done it himself. When again the young man looked at her, he was almost startled by the radiant mischief of her face.
"Horace Hitchcock here? Oh, dear, no! I can't think of anybody I'd be less likely to ask to my wedding."
"That's one point, evidently, on which you and Miss Combs are not in agreement."
Peggy pondered. "Priscilla might ask him to her wedding. I don't know. But it's certain he didn't askhertohis."
Young Mr. Kennedy's start was unmistakable. "You don't mean he's married?"
"Yes indeed. There was quite an account of it in the papers. But if you didn't know his name, you wouldn't remember."
"No, I wouldn't remember," agreed Mr. Kennedy. All at once he was beaming. "I shall be glad when the next two years are up, Mrs. Wylie," he cried boyishly. "I have a hunch that you and I are going to be great friends."
A moment later he joined Priscilla, and from that time on followed her about like her shadow, and the observant Peggy smiled approval. She was not in the least discomfited by Graham's reference to high explosives. The most dangerous things in the world, in her estimation, were misunderstandings.
At ten o'clock the bride went upstairs to change to her little going-away suit with theEton Jacket, that made her look hardly older than the Peggy Raymond who entered college. And then the good-bys began. "We'll be back in a few days," said Peggy as she kissed each one, but even that assurance failed to give comfort. For though Peggy and Graham were coming back for twenty-four hours, they were to sail on the sixth. Peggy's friends returned her smiles bravely, but there was hardly one who did not struggle to keep back the tears.
They crowded out on the porch to see her go. Some one hurled an old shoe as the taxi-cab glided away. Peggy leaned from the window to wave her hand, and then the darkness swallowed her up.
Amy, Ruth, and Priscilla stood side by side. The tears were running down Ruth's cheeks, and Priscilla's eyes were wet. Amy had forced herself to smile during Peggy's protracted leave-taking and the smile persisted, though it had become a grimace.
"Is this place called Friendly Terrace?" Amy demanded tragically, "Or is it the—the Dismal Swamp."
"Or the desert of Sahara," suggested Priscilla,a quaver in her voice showing that the suggestion was not altogether a joke.
"Girls!" for a moment Ruth struggled with a sob, but she conquered it and went on resolutely, "I don't know who named Friendly Terrace, but I do know it was Peggy who made the name fit. And we've got to keep it up. We can't let it become like other little streets where nobody cares for his neighbor. We've got to show what Peggy meant to us by—by—"
"By keeping the home fires burning," interpolated Amy, and Ruth nodded as if the familiar phrase said all she had wished to say.
As the others crowded indoors, declaring after immemorial fashion that there had never been a prettier wedding nor a lovelier bride, Peggy's three friends stood side by side; Ruth's hand was fast in Amy's, and Amy's arm was about Priscilla's waist. And while none of them spoke, each of them in her heart was silently pledging herself to keep Friendly Terrace what Peggy had made it.