Abbie swept across the dingy loft room, her hoops swinging in wiry bounces. She knelt down by her mother’s chair, her skirts forming a huge circular mound, and laid her head against the older woman’s. “And besides, Mother, you understand, don’t you . . . when you follow your heart you don’t need pearls to make you happy?”

It was time now. Abbie went down the ladder with the saplings nailed across for steps. She had to go backward so that her hoops could navigate the descension with some degree of modesty. The fiddlers were playing, “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Will, looking big and fine and handsome, was there in the black suit Grandma Deal had made him. Grandpa Deal, with his one arm and the kindly twinkle in his ice-blue eyes, was there,—joking. Grandma Deal, in a black cap with black strings tied under the face that was covered with the faint tracing of hosts of wrinkles, was there. She was nervous, fretful, scolding. Why didn’t the men stand back? Why didn’t they shut that door? Where was that preacher keeping himself? A thousand mental worries like a thousand gnats irritating the peace of her mind. Whole families had come in wagons. Regina Deal and her beau and Dr. and Mrs. Matthews were the only ones who had come in high-top buggies. When the doctor and his wife came in, there was a little buzz of excitement, some whispering that they wondered whether or not it was true that young Dr. Ed had wanted Abbie.

A solemn hush fell on the company.

“Inasmuch as we are gathered here together in the sight of the Lord.” Suddenly, Abbie wanted to halt the ceremony. There seemed nothing in her mind but that odd thought of a wind rushing by, a wind she could not stop,—Time, going by,—Time which she could not stay. Stop Time for a minute, until she could think what queer thing was happening to her.

“Do you take this woman, . . . sickness, . . . health, . . . ’til death, . . .” What a queer thing to talk about now,—death,—when it was life that was before them. “. . . this man . . . lawfully wedded husband . . .?”

“I do.” But, oh Will . . . Will . . . who are you? Do I know you?

And then, quite suddenly, Abbie Mackenzie was Abbie Deal. The fiddlers played “Money Musk,” and “Turkey in the Straw.” The company danced,—square dances of intricate design. Grandpa Deal wanted to take a partner, but Grandma Deal said no, it was foolish for an old man, fifty-five. But Maggie O’Conner Mackenzie danced,—alone, lightly and puffingly, in the middle of the floor, to:

“Oh the days of the Kerry dancing,

Oh the days when my heart was young.”

There were biscuits and chickens and cakes and cider to be eaten from tables formed by putting long boards over saw-horses. And then, more dancing.

Will Deal’s dark serious face bent low above Abbie’s creamy-petaled, flushed one. A long row of love-apples stood in the window.