And then the day came when Kenneth Raymond was to arrive. Mrs. Tweksbury could be safely left in New York. She was resigned to the wedding but deplored the necessity of being absent.
"I know something will go wrong," she said to Kenneth; "do be careful and make sure that you are really married, Ken! They are so sloppy in the South, and it would be quite like Doris Fletcher, if she couldn't get that candlestick preacher of hers, to let Dave Martin or any one else read the service. Doris never could put the emphasis of life where it belonged."
Kenneth laughed merrily.
"Nancy and I will see to it, Aunt Emily," he replied, "that we are tied up close. Just use your time, until I bring her back, in thinking of the good days on ahead—when we'll have her always, you and I."
Mrs. Tweksbury relaxed.
"She's a blessed child, Ken. She always was."
Raymond arrived late one May afternoon. Joan was dressing for dinner, dressing slowly, tremblingly—she did not mean to go downstairs until dinner was served if she could avoid it.
She had worked late, worked until she was weary enough to plead an hour's rest, and now she stood by the window overlooking The Gap.
"I've got the world in my grip," she thought, "but the whirl makes me dizzy."
Silver River was rushing along rather noisily—there had been a big storm the night before and the water had not yet calmed down; the rocks shone in the last rays of the sun, and just then Joan looked up at The Rock!