ficiating
clergyman's book out of his hand and steering the service for herself,
melted away before the vision of her serious young beauty as she made
her vows, and turned from the clergyman's felicitations, at the
conclusion of the service, to take Grandmother into a tender embrace.

"I owe it all to you," she said to Grandmother by and by, in my hearing,
as we three happened to be for a little alone together. She turned to
me. "I was a barbarian when she took me," she said. "A barbarian of
barbarians. If it hadn't been for Grandmother I should be one yet, and
he"--her glance went off for an instant toward her young husband--"would
never have dreamed of looking at me."

"You were not very different, my dear," said Grandmother, in her gentle
way, "from many girls of this day."

"Forgive me, dear," responded Rhodora, "but I was so much worse that
only a grandmother like you could have shown me what I was."

"I never tried to show you what you were," said Grandmother. "Only what
you could be. And now--I must lose you."

The Preacher came up, the Skeptic by his side. The Philosopher and
Hepatica, seeing the old magic circle forming, promptly added
themselves.

It fell out, presently, that the Philosopher and I, a step away from the
others, were observing them as we talked together. The Philosopher had
adjusted his eyeglasses, having carefully polished them. He seemed to
want to see things clearly to-day.

"This is a scene I've witnessed a good many times, first and last," said
he. "Each time it impresses me afresh with the daring of the
participants. Brave young things, setting sail upon a mighty ocean, in a
small boat, which may or may not be seaworthy--some of them, it seems,
sometimes, with neither chart nor compass--certainly with little
knowledge of the crew. It's a trite comparison, I suppose."

"You talk as if you stood safely on the shore," I ventured. "Is life no
ocean to you, then--and do you never feel adrift upon it?"

The Philosopher stared curiously at me. It was, I admit, a strange
speech for me to make to him, but I had not been thinking of him. I had
been thinking of Lad, my big boy, now away at school, and of the day
when he should reach this experience for himself, and I should have to
give him up--my one near tie. I should surely feel adrift in that
day--far adrift.

"Does it seem to you like that?" he asked, very gently, after a minute.

I looked up, and saw a new and quite strange express