Drawn up close to the door stood the cart. Beside it waited Anthony. Around the cart crowded twenty people. When Juliet came through them to say good-bye the son of the Bishop murmured:
“Er—Mrs. Robeson——”
“Yes, Mr. Farnham——” said Juliet promptly, her delicate flush answering the name, as it had answered it many times that day.
“When are you going to be at home to your friends?”
“The fifteenth day of October,” said Juliet. “And from then on, every day in the week, every week in the year. Come and see us—everybody. But don’t expect any formal invitations.”
“I’ll be down,” declared the Bishop’s son. “I’ll be down once a week.”
“Please don’t stay long after we are gone,” requested Anthony, putting his bride into the cart and springing in beside her. He gathered up the reins. “Good-bye,” he called. “Take this next train home. It goes in an hour. Lock the door, Carey, and hang the key up in plain sight by the window there. We live in the country now, and that’s the way we do. Good-bye—good-bye!”
Then he drove rapidly away down the road.
“And that pair,” said the son of the Bishop gravely, looking after them and speaking to the company in general, “married, so to speak, in a hay-wagon, and going for a wedding trip in a wheel-barrow through the Berkshires, is Juliet Marcy and Anthony Robeson.”