“O poor Phronsie!” sighed Mrs. Fargo, “and poor Polly, and all.”
“‘And—and’” went on Alexia recovering her place in her letter, “‘and one day when everything seemed the blackest, and as if we couldn’t bear it another minute longer, Roslyn came up again. And then Grandpapa told him how everything was to be as he wished. Well, from that moment, Alexia, the world was bright again, and the sun shone, and we all were as glad as glad could be: and Roslyn just adores Grandpapa. You can’t think how devoted they are to each other. And so everything was quickly arranged—for who do you think should drop down suddenly but Roslyn’s father, General May! Now, wasn’t that perfectly lovely! I always suspect that Father King sent for him, though he doesn’t say so.’
“Just think how all those people had Phronsie to themselves,” mourned Alexia, who, now that Roslyn was mending, returned to her own grievances. “And Grace Tupper too—she was at that wedding; and Pickering and you and I, Mrs. Fargo, left out in the cold.”
“I know it,” sighed Mrs. Fargo; “well, go on, Alexia.”
“Oh, dear me! well, where was I? Oh—‘and so this morning Phronsie and Roslyn were married. Roslyn was very weak; but he was lifted out of his chair, and insisted on standing during a part of the ceremony. And Joel married them beautifully. And Grandpapa gave Phronsie away.’
“Oh dear, dear!” screamed Alexia, quite carried out of herself, “why couldn’t we have been there!
“‘And Roslyn’s just as beautiful and splendid, and he’s my brother now,’” Polly’s letter went on; “‘and I’m so happy, Alexia, about it, you can’t think. And Phronsie wore one of her white muslin dresses, and carried the white prayer-book that Roslyn gave her; and she was married with his mother’s ring he had worn all these years. And Roslyn looked like one of the pictures of the young gods, he was so handsome; and Phronsie—well, she was our Phronsie! Oh! and Roslyn’s work, begun in his studio, is considered most remarkable. He is surely, so we are told on all sides, to be one of the foremost sculptors of the age. And you can’t think how proud Grandpapa is of him!’
“‘And now, you poor dear! I know how badly you feel not to have Phronsie married at home.’”
Alexia gave a deep groan, as if words were beyond her.
“‘And that you couldn’t even see her married. Well, now, Alexia, Phronsie wants me to tell you a piece of news, a secret just yet, only for you and Pickering and dear Mrs. Fargo to know. Roslyn and she are to live in the little brown house; and he is to build a studio in the meadow back of it, and not go to Rome only once in a while, when they want to travel. Did you ever hear of anything so splendid!’”