self was simple in its
appointments, as such events must needs be in the frontier years. All
day we had worked to decorate the plain stone house, which the deftness
of Little Blue Flower and the artistic touch of Little Lees turned into
a spring bower, with trailing vines and blossoms everywhere.

Mat's wedding-gown was neither new nor elaborate, for the affair had
been too hastily decided on, but Eloise had made it bride-like by
draping a filmy veil over Mat's bright brown hair, and Little Blue
Flower had brought her long strands of turquoise beads, "old and
borrowed and blue," to fulfil the needs of every bride.

In the bridal party Beverly and I walked in front, followed by the two
girls in the white Greek robes which they had worn at the school frolic
at St. Ann's, and wearing their headbands, the one of silver and
turquoise, the other of silver and coral. Then came Rex Krane and Bill
Banney. Poor Bill! Nobody guessed that night that the bridal blossoms
were flowers on the coffin of his dead hope. And last of all, Esmond
Clarenden and Mat Nivers, with shining eyes, leaning on his arm. I had
never seen Uncle Esmond in evening dress before, nor dreamed how
splendid a figure he could make for a drawing-room in the costume in
which he was so much at ease. But the handsomest man of all the large
company gathered there that night was Jondo, big, broad-shouldered
Jondo, his deep-blue eyes bright with joy for these two. And in the
background was Aunty Boone, resplendent in a new red calico besprinkled
with her favorite white dots, her head turbaned in a yellow silk
bandana, and about her neck a strand of huge green glass beads. Her eyes
glistened as she watched that night's events, and her comfortable
ejaculations of approval were like the low purr of a satisfied cat. Then
came the solemn pledges, the benediction and congratulations. There was
merrymaking and singing, cake and unfermented wine of grapes for
refreshing, and much good will that night.

When the guests were gone and the lights, save one kitchen candle, were
all out, I had slipped from the dining-room with the last burden of
dishes, when I paused a minute beside the open kitchen window to let the
midnight breeze cool my face.

On the side porch, a little affair made to shelter the doorway, I saw
Beverly Clarenden and Little Blue Flower. He was speaking gently, but
with his blunt frankness, as he patted the two brown hands clinging to
his arm. The Indian gir