rry that dropped into her bright pail was no
longer a berry but a sprig of pink chintz. While she worked she went over
her plans for the day.

There had been busy times at the old house during the past weeks. Kate,
her elder sister, was to be married. It was only a few days now to the
wedding.

There had been a whole year of preparation: spinning and weaving and fine
sewing. The smooth white linen lay ready, packed between rose leaves and
lavender. There had been yards and yards of tatting and embroidery made by
the two girls for the trousseau, and the village dressmaker had spent days
at the house, cutting, fitting, shirring, till now there was a goodly
array of gorgeous apparel piled high upon bed, and chairs, and hanging in
the closets of the great spare bedroom. The outfit was as fine as that
made for Patience Hartrandt six months before, and Mr. Hartrandt had given
his one daughter all she had asked for in the way of a "setting out." Kate
had seen to it that her things were as fine as Patience's,--but, they were
all for Kate!

Of course, that was right! Kate was to be married, not Marcia, and
everything must make way for that. Marcia was scarcely more than a child
as yet, barely seventeen. No one thought of anything new for her just
then, and she did not expect it. But into her heart there had stolen a
longing for a new frock herself amid all this finery for Kate. She had her
best one of course. That was good, and pretty, and quite nice enough to
wear to the wedding, and her stepmother had taken much relief in the
thought that Marcia would need nothing during the rush of getting Kate
ready.

But there were people coming to the house every day, especially in the
afternoons, friends of Kate, and of her stepmother, to be shown Kate's
wardrobe, and to talk things over curiously. Marcia could not wear her
best dress all the time. And _he_ was coming! That was the way Marcia
always denominated the prospective bridegroom in her mind.

His name was David Spafford, and Kate often called him Dave, but Marcia,
even to herself, could never bring herself to breathe the name so
familiarly. She held him in great awe. He was so fine and strong and good,
with a face like a young saint in some old picture, she thought. She often
wondered how her wild, sparkling sister Kate dared to be so familiar with
him. She had ventured the thought once when she watched Kate dressing to
go out with some young people and preening herself like