was left to the sparrows, pink sunshine, confetti, rice, and
Mary.

The little pilgrim's sunbonnet was hanging down her back, her hair was
loose upon her shoulders, "an' real goldy" where it caught the sun, and
her eyes were wide and deep with happiness and faith. She crossed the
wide plaisance and stood upon the steps, she gathered up three white
roses and a shred of lace, she sat down to rest upon the topmost step,
she laid her cheek against the inhospitable doors, and, in the language
of the stories she loved so well, "so fell she on sleep" with the tired
flowers in her tired hands.

And there Herbert Buckley found her. He had traveled far afield on that
autumn afternoon; but it is not every day that the daughter of the owner
of one-half the mills in a manufacturing town is married to the owner of
the other half, and when such things do occur to the accompaniment of
illustrious visitors, a half-holiday in all the mills, perfect weather,
and unlimited hospitality, it behooves the progressive journalist and
reporter for miles around to sing "haste to the wedding," and to draw
largely upon his adjectives and his fountain pen. The editorial staff of
the Arcady _Herald-Journal_ turned homeward, and was evolving phrases in
which to describe that gala day when his eye caught the color of a
familiar little sunbonnet, the outline of a familiar little figure. But
such a drooping little sunbonnet! Such a relaxed little figure! Such a
weary little face! And such a wildly impossible place in which to find a
little daughter. Then he remembered having seen Miss Ann and Miss Agnes
among the spectators and his wonder changed to indignation.

It was nearly dark when Mary opened her eyes again and found herself
sheltered in her father's arm and rocked by the old familiar motion of
the buggy.

"And then," she prompted sleepily as her old habit was, "what did they
do then?"

"They were married," his quiet voice replied.

"And then?"

"Oh, then they went away together and lived happily ever after."

For some space there was silence and a star came out. Mary watched it
drowsily and then drowsily began:

"When I was to Camelot--"

"Where?" demanded her father.

"When I was to Camelot," she repeated, cuddling close to him as if to
show that there were dearer places than that gorgeous city, "I saw a
knight and a lady getting married. And lots of other knights were
there--they didn't wear their fighting clothes--and lots of othe