r and a coffee-colored skin.
Being neither black nor white, she partook somewhat of the nature of both
races. Back of her African gentleness was an almost Yankee shrewdness,
and the firm will which now and then degenerated into obstinacy.

"There ain't no luck in a wedding without rice, Miss Mary. These paper
rose-leaf things that you've got in the bags are mighty pretty, but how
are you going to know that they bring good luck?"

"Aunt Frances thought they would be charming and foreign, Susan, and they
look very real, floating off in the air. You must stand there on the
upper porch, and give the little bags to the guests."

Susan ascended the terrace steps complainingly. "You go right in out of
the night, Miss Mary," she called back, "an' you with nothin' on your
bare neck!"

Mary, turning, came face to face with Gordon's best man, Porter Bigelow.

"Mary," he said, impetuously, "I've been looking for you everywhere. I
couldn't keep my eyes off you during the service--you were--heavenly."

"I'm not a bit angelic, Porter," she told him, "and I'm simply freezing
out here. I had to show Susan about the confetti."

He drew her in and shut the door. "They sent me to hunt for you," he
said. "Constance wants you. She's going up-stairs to change. But I
heard just now that you are going to Nice. Leila told me. Mary--you
can't go--not so far away--from me."

His hand was on her arm.

She shook it off with a little laugh.

"You haven't a thing to do with it, Porter. And I'm not going--to Nice."

"But Leila said----"

Her head went up. It was a characteristic gesture. "It doesn't make any
difference what _any one_ says. I'm not going to Nice."

Once more in the Tower Rooms, the two sisters were together for the last
time. Leila was sent down on a hastily contrived errand. Aunt Frances,
arriving, was urged to go back and look after the guests. Only Aunt
Isabelle was allowed to remain. She could be of use, and the things
which were to be said she could not hear.

"Dearest," Constance's voice had a break in it, "dearest, I feel so
selfish--leaving you----"

Mary was kneeling on the floor, unfastening hooks. "Don't worry, Con.
I'll get along."

"But you'll have to bear--things--all alone. It isn't as if any one
knew, and you could talk it out."

"I'd rather die than speak of it," fiercely, "and I sha'n't write
anything to you about it, for Gordon will read your letters."

"Oh, Mary, he won't."