ike it does? But here it is, the prettiest color in the world, pretty
as any rose, and, besides that, smellin' like the sweetest flower
that grows.'"

"What is the sweetest flower that grows?" I asked.

"Don't ask me such a question as that," said Aunt Jane with emphasis.
"Every one's the sweetest while I'm smellin' it. But when Parson Page
talked about the sweetest flower, he meant the calycanthus. There's
mighty little difference between smellin' a bowl o' strawberries and a
handful o' calycanthuses. Yes, the world's full o' sweet things,
child, and you don't have to look in gyardens to find 'em, either.
They're scattered around everywhere and free for everybody. Jest look
yonder in that old fence corner. There's catnip and hoarhound and
horsemint and pennyroy'l, and pretty soon there'll be wild
life-everlastin'. Yes, it's a mighty sweet world. I'm glad I've lived
in it this long, and heaven'll have to be somethin' mighty fine if
it's any better'n this old earth. Now hurry up, child, or we won't
have time to see the town sights before dark comes."

Within a mile of town I noticed a house barely visible at the end of
an avenue so long that it made me think of the "lane that knows no
turning."

"What house is that?" I asked.

Aunt Jane's eyes twinkled. "That's the house that was a weddin' fee,"
she said mysteriously.

"A wedding fee?" I echoed doubtfully.

"A weddin' fee," repeated Aunt Jane. "But don't ask me any questions
about it now, for there ain't time to tell it before we git to town."

"But you'll tell it on the way back?" I urged eagerly.

"Yes, child, yes. But hurry up now. I don't believe you care whether
we git to town or not."

I shook the lines over Nelly's back, tapped her gently with the whip,
and on we went. Aunt Jane was impatient to get to town, but I--I
wished for a longer road, a slower steed, and a Joshua to command the
afternoon sun to stand still a while in the heavens. For it was the
last day of May. Time stood reluctant on the border line between
spring and summer, and in every bird-song and every whisper of the
wind I seemed to hear,

"Farewell, farewell, to another spring!"

"You see that pretty farm yonder?" said Aunt Jane, pointing to the
left. "Fields as level as a parlor floor and soil like a river-bottom?
That farm belonged to Henry Amos, Sam Amos's youngest brother. Henry
got the gold-fever back in '49, him and a lot of other young fellers,
and nothin' wou