Some time before the ceremony Abbie climbed the uncarpeted pine stairs with the little calf-skin-covered chest under her arm. Just as her mother had climbed the sapling ladder in the old log cabin, she was thinking. Wasn’t life queer? Such a little while ago, it seemed. Where had the time gone? Blown away by the winds you could not stop,—ticked off by the clock hands you could not stay.

Margaret was nearly dressed. Her blue silk, with its fifteen yards of goods, was looped back modishly over a bustle, the train dragging behind her with stylish abandon. Abbie sat down on the edge of her daughter’s bed, the chest in her lap. “You know, Margaret, it was always a kind-of dream of mine that by the time you were married, we’d be well enough off to do a lot of things for you. I always saw you in my mind dressed in white with a veil and slippers,—not just that I wanted you dressed that one way,—but I mean as a sort of symbol,—that we’d be able to do all the things for you that should rightfully go with the pearls. But,” Abbie’s voice broke a little and she stopped to steady it, “things don’t always turn out just as we dream,—and we’re not able to do much for you. But anyway, you shall wear the pearls to-night if you want to.”

Margaret, holding up her long dress, crossed the rag-carpeted floor in little swift happy steps, and threw young arms around her mother.

“I know all you’ve done for me, Mother.” She took Abbie’s rough hands in her own firm ones and held them to her lips. “And it’s everything,—just everything that you could do. Never as long as I live can I ever repay it.” There were tears in the young girl’s eyes and to keep them back, she said lightly, “No, thanks, Mother, dear. I’m all right with my lovely blue silk and the white silk ruching at my neck. Keep them for Isabelle or baby Grace. You and father will be well-fixed in a few years. The land will be higher. You’re having good crops now and by the time Isabelle is married, your dream can come true. And besides, Mother, dear,” she put her young cheek against Abbie’s, “you know that when you marry the man you love, you don’t need jewels to make you happy.”

Yes, yes,—how the words came back, borne on the breeze of memories! How swiftly the clock hands had gone around! Abbie could not speak. She must shed no tears on her little girl’s wedding day. So, she only patted her and kissed her, smiling at her through a thousand unshed tears. And you, who have seen your mother smile when you left her,—or have smiled at your daughter’s leaving,—know it is the most courageous smile of all.

And then it was time to go downstairs. Margaret and young Doctor Fred Baker came down the enclosed pine stairway and across the parlor, Margaret’s silk dress dragging stylishly over the red and green spirals of the sale carpet. Isabelle pedaled and played the wedding march, lustily, the sound of the wind pumping into the reeds rather prominent above the melody.