A solemn hush fell on the friends gathered from all the farms and the little village. Abbie stood by Will, who was holding Grace in his arms. John was at her other side. Mack sauntered over and stood by Emma Lutz. Isabelle stopped playing and the voice of the preacher came hurtling against the silence:

“Inasmuch as we are gathered together—”

Abbie thought she could not stand it. She must call out in one great scream that she could not let her little girl go away from her.

“For better or for worse.” Oh, God, don’t let Margaret have to go through all the hardships I did.

“Until death do you part.” There, they were speaking of death again. Why did they always talk about death when there was only life before them?

“Do you take this man. . . .”

And now Abbie was going to break down and cry. She threw up her head. No, not a tear, not a single tear! If she started, she would turn into a Niobe to weep herself to death.

And then, quite suddenly, Margaret Deal was Mrs. Fred Baker.

After that, with Isabelle pumping away faithfully, if windily, on the “Blue Danube Waltz,” and “By the Blue Alsatian Mountains,” some of the young folks danced on the new sale carpet, with the straw underneath working itself up into little hummocks.

There were biscuits and pressed chickens, cakes and lemonade out on the side porch. Christine Reinmueller and Sarah Lutz took turns in shaking the fly-brush with its long paper streamers over the tables, so that no unusual number of flies would light on the food. Every one had a grand and glorious time. There was only one queer thing about the whole affair,—a new dish among the refreshments which no one in the community had served before. Men folks going home, asked their wives why in Sam Hill the potatoes were all cold, and their wives said to hush and not show their ignorance, that it was something new called “potato salad” and it was supposed to be cold. At which, most of the men laughed long and raucously and said by golly, for their part, they’d take theirs hot-fried or baked in the skins.

And back on the porch of the farmhouse behind the cedars, Abbie Deal stood and watched her married daughter drive away under the starlit summer sky. Then she turned and went into the kitchen and wound the old Seth Thomas clock with the little brown church painted on the glass.

CHAPTER XXI

After Margaret’s marriage, life seemed to move along in a monotonous regularity that summer. Letters came from her twice a week and they were full of enthusiasm and plans. It was nice to have her so happily married, Abbie thought. Mack did not write so often. When he did, the letter was brief and businesslike. He had received a raise in wages. The president, himself, commended him about something. Omaha was growing. You would be surprised to see how large it was getting. One gathered the impression from Mack that he was joint-owner in all the enterprises. Well, it was a good trait, Abbie thought. Loyalty! It was nice for a boy to feel so much a part of a town.