arly accomplished, but at every moment of what still
remained to be done the girls emitted little shrieks, laughs, and moans
of intense interest, and fluttered in their light summer dresses against
the background of the dark evergreens like anxious birds.

At last the piano was got into the middle of the wagon, the inclined
planks withdrawn and loaded into it, and the tail-board snapped to.
Three of the men stepped aside, and one of them jumped into the front of
the wagon and gathered up the reins from the horses' backs. He called
with mocking challenge to the group of girls, "Nobody goin' to git up
here and keep this piano from tippin' out?"

A wild clamor rose from the girls, settling at last into staccato cries.

"You've got to _do_ it, Phyl!"

"Yes, Phyllis, you _must_ get in!"

"It's _your_ piano, Phyl. You've got to keep it from tipping out!"

"No, no! I won't! I can't! I'm not going to!" one voice answered to all,
but apparently without a single reference to the event; for in the end
the speaker gave her hand to the man in the wagon, and with many small
laughs and squeaks was pulled up over the hub and tire of a front wheel,
and then stood staying herself against the piano-case, with a final
lamentation of "Oh, it's a shame! I'll never speak to any of you again!
How perfectly mean! _Oh!_" The last exclamation signalized the start of
the horses at a brisk mountain trot, which the driver presently sobered
to a walk. The three remaining girls followed, mocking and cheering, and
after them lounged the three remaining men, at a respectful distance,
marking the social interval between them, which was to be bridged only
in some such moment of supreme excitement as the present.

It was no question with Gaites whether he should bring up the end of the
procession; he could not think of any consideration that would have
stayed him. He scarcely troubled himself to keep at a fit remove from
the rest; and as he followed in the deepening twilight he felt a sweet,
unselfish gladness of heart that the poor girl whom he had seen so wan
and sad in Boston should be the gay soul of this pretty triumph.

The wagon drove into the grounds of the Desmond cottage, and backed up
to the edge of the veranda. Lights appeared, and voices came from
within. One of the men, despatched to the barn for a hatchet, came
flickering back with a lantern also; lamps brought out of the house were
extinguished by the evening breeze (in spite of lumi