"Zac, shut up!" said Cyrus. "Go back, and stay on the porch."
But Zac preferred to accompany the expedition. Without openly refusing to obey, he merely bounced about, just out of reach, wagged his tail and smiled in the faces of the bride and groom.
"Shall we let him come?" said Cyrus.
Ruth hesitated, but only for an instant. "No. A dog barking at a wedding would be unreligious."
So Cyrus, by pleadings, threats and gentle force induced his more worldly comrade to remain without. But he said good-by to him as he turned away. For, in parting with this bachelor friend, he may have had feelings in common with other matrimonial heroes when marching to the altar.
Meanwhile, the Rev. George Bentley Heywood, father of the prospective bride, stood at the west window of his study. His thoughts were far away. In his hand was a letter from a friend in China. This friend, a missionary, had presented, in eloquent and convincing words, the various joys, spiritual, material and social that attended the servant of God when converting the heathen of the Orient.
Mr. Heywood's imagination had responded to the winged words and was already disporting itself in the Chinese vineyard. There had been other letters, all with the same message. And, now, standing at the window with the letter in his hand, he was thinking, and thinking hard, over the most important decision of his life.
Mr. Heywood was a serious man. Upon his person lay no superfluous flesh. His face, otherwise severe, was tempered by the eyes of a poet—eyes of a gentle, somewhat solemn beauty. They were pleasant to look into. Ruth had inherited these eyes, and in her childish face they shone with an added beauty. They were dreamy eyes, a soft brown-black with blacker lashes, and either tragic or mirthful, as occasion called.