ed away from the
window, and covering her face with her hands, tried to beat back a tide
of emotions that have no place in the heart of middle age. The moments
passed uncounted now, and twilight had faded into night before she heard
Anna Belle's voice calling from below:

"Mother! Where are you, Mother? Come right down. Henry wants to see
you;" and like one who walks in her sleep she obeyed the summons.

They stood before her, hand in hand, smiling, breathless, encircled by
the aura of love's young dream; but there was a far-away look in
Margaret Williams' eyes, as she looked at their radiant faces. How many
years was it since she and Anna Belle's father had stood before her
mother! And now that mother's name was carved on a graveyard stone, and
she was in her mother's place with a mother's blessing in her hands for
young lovers.

Anna Belle was looking up at Henry, waiting for him to put into words
the gratitude and happiness that filled their hearts. But the gift of
the ready tongue was not Henry's. How could a man find words to thank a
mother for giving him her daughter? How poor and mean were all the
customary phrases of appreciation to be offered for such a gift! But
while he hesitated, his eyes met the eyes of Anna Belle's mother, and
with a quick impulse of the heart, his tongue was loosed to the
utterance of one word that made all other words superfluous.

"Mother!" he said; and as their hands met, Anna Belle's arms were around
her neck, and Anna Belle's voice was whispering in her ear: "You are
the very best mother in all the world." Yet in that moment of supreme
happiness for the lovers, Margaret Williams realized what she was giving
up, and tasted the bitterness and the sweetness of the cup of
self-abnegation that her own hands had prepared. The hot tears of
anguish smarted in her eyes. But the tears did not fall, and the emotion
passed as swiftly as it had come. She straightened herself in her chair
and pushed Anna Belle gently away.

"It seems to me we're makin' a great fuss over a mighty little matter,"
she said carelessly. "I'd have been a poor sort o' mother to stand in
the way of my own child's happiness, and it wouldn't suit me at all to
be a millstone or a stumblin'-block. That's all there is to it. Now, go
out on the front porch, you two, and set your weddin' day."

* * * * *

It was the afternoon of the wedding day, and the two mothers were
sitting on the porch