In the kitchen she found great consternation: the bride, pale and dejected in all her finery, sat on the table, all the chairs being in the parlour.
"What's the matter?" demanded Mrs. Beaver.
"He ain't come!" announced one of the women in tragic tones.
"Ben Schenk ain't here?" asked Mrs. Beaver in accents so awful that her listeners quaked. "Well, I'll see the reason why!"
Out into the night she sallied, picking her way around the puddles until she reached the saloon at the corner.
"Where's Ben Schenk?" she demanded sternly of the men around the bar.
There was an ominous silence, broken only by the embarrassed shuffling of feet.
Drawing herself up, Mrs. Beaver thumped the counter.
"Where's he at?" she repeated, glaring at the most embarrassed of the lot.
"He don't know where he's at," said the man. "I rickon he cilebrated a little too much fer the weddin'."