answered Bea, looking at the card, that had been tied with a white ribbon to the nose of the tea-pot. "How good they are! I'm too happy to live."
So it seemed, as she helped take in the things, laughing and crying, and touching them with careful, caressing fingers. They made a most imposing show when arranged on the table, and during the day more modest presents, that came in from well wishing friends, were added to the collection. There came a fancy clock from Mr. Dane, three dozen handsome towels and four beautiful table spreads from Mrs. Dane; and a variety of little things from the young people, with whom Bea was a favorite.
As soon as Mr. Congreve and Olive arrived, on the evening train, they were taken in to view "the show," but the old gentleman added nothing to it, to every one's surprise; though he seemed pleased with everything there, and said it was a plenty for one bride.
After supper, Olive disappeared and was gone some little time, but where, no one knew, and finally Mr. Congreve jumped up, with the remark, that he had heard her say something about Mrs. Dane's, and as he knew where it was, he guessed he'd walk over after her.
"Never mind, Uncle Ridley, if she is there, Mr. Dane will walk home with her, and you must be tired," said Mrs. Dering.
"God bless my soul, Elizabeth! I'm not an old man," exclaimed the crusty old gentleman of seventy odd years, as he threw open the door, and strode briskly out into the May moonlight. "I think a great deal of your Olive; she's a thorough Congreve, and I'd rather lose my best handkerchief than have anything happen to her—I had indeed. So go in, my dear, go in," and Mrs. Dering obediently went in, as he tramped briskly down the walk.
That last evening of Bea's in the old home came very near being a sad one, in spite of every one's attempt to the contrary. Ernestine stayed down stairs for the first evening since her illness, and the excitement brought a stain of color into her white cheeks that made her look more like her old self, as she lay on the lounge.
Bea sat on the stool at her mother's feet, and Mrs. Dering softly caressed the plump, white hand, that to-morrow she would give away, and now and then a pause would come, when the mother's eyes would fill with tears, and her lips tremble, and then some one would rush in, to break the silence, and thrust irrelevant nonsense into the groove cut for April tears.
Wherever Mr. Congreve and Olive came from, they had a serious talk on the way home. Something evidently disturbed the old gentleman's mind, and he fidgetted nervously, until he had relieved himself with the explosive remark:
"So you sent Roger home, did you?"