n stockings and the flat shoes, which Pan had made
me that rainy day in the barn, had on my corduroys and a linen smock, and
was running down to my wedding with wings of the wind.

When I reached the back porch I found Polly sitting up on the floor, with
Matthew's arms around her, and the entire wedding-party standing beside the
back steps, looking on and ejaculating with thankfulness. Old Parson
Henderson stood near, beaming down benedictions for the rescue, and I
decided that they were all in a daze in which anything could be put over on
them.

"Here's my bundle and me," I whispered to Pan, as he stood regarding the
young recovered squaw proudly. "Hand the license to Parson Hendricks. I'll
make him go on and marry us and get away before anybody puts me back into
tulle."

"As Polly is all right now we'll have the wedding, for it's getting late,
and we want to get across to the Paradise Ridge to camp," said Adam, with
the fluty command in his voice which always gets attention and obedience.
As he spoke he put down his bundle, gave Parson Hendricks the document, and
drew me beside him. I kept my bundle in my hand and stood with my other in
his.

"Why, I didn't know that--" the old parson began to splutter while a murmur
of surprise and question began to arise among the hitherto hypnotized
wedding-guests. Judge Rutherford stood apart with the twin parents showing
them some book treasure he had unearthed for father, and I don't think that
either one of my natural guardians was at my wedding except in body.

At the critical moment dear old Matt did rise to the occasion, as did Polly
also, with a crimson glow coming into her drenched cheeks, pallid only a
second before, and a light like sunrise on a violet bank coming into her
eyes.

"She's always intended to marry Baldwin. I knew all about it. Go on!"
Matthew commanded, as he supported Polly in her blankets on wobbly bare
feet.

During the resuscitation of Polly, Owen Murray, true to his new passion for
the Leghorn family, had been reviving Mr. G. Bird and now with regard for
decorum, he set him quietly upon his feet. Did the Golden Bird run like a
coward from the scene of the catastrophe of his making? He did not. He
deliberately stretched his wings, gave a mighty crow, and walked over and
began to peck in my smock-pockets at corn that had lain there many long
weeks for him.

"Go on, Parson," commanded Pan again, impatiently, and then standing
together in the fad