In front of the house, upon the prettiest bit of lawn for miles about, was set the present that children and grandchildren gave—a sundial made of Pompton granite, inscribed with the same pretty legend as that upon the famous one of Queen Alexandra at Sandringham:
“Let others tell of storm or showers,
I only mark the sunny hours.”
The little room, set aside, as upon the occasion of a real wedding, for the presents, revealed plenty of sentiment. There was a cake, made from an old Virginia recipe, baked in the shape that every Virginian bride in “Marion Harland’s” girlhood days used to have. It had been made by an old friend. A great bowl of water-lilies stood near by—some one had got up at daybreak and scoured their haunts to get fifty of them to present.
Gold purses and gold-trimmed purses—some of them with gold pieces inside—a gold brooch for the wife and a gold scarf-pin for her husband, gold fruit-knives, and Austrian glassware were among the gifts.
In the receiving-party were Doctor and Mrs. Terhune’s daughters and daughter-in-law—Mrs. Christine Terhune Herrick, Mrs. Van de Water, and Mrs. Albert Payson Terhune. The men of the family did honors as ushers, and the boys—the grandsons—patrolled the porches and lawn with ices and salads and delicious yellow-iced cakes.
Golden-rod and golden-glow were everywhere. The porch posts were hidden from sight by them, and the room where the receiving-party stood was banked and massed in a bewilderment of blooms.
And “Marion Harland” herself, in her beautiful gown of black lace, with violet orchids pinned upon her bosom, did honors, much after the manner of that famous hostess of old whose greeting was invariably “At last!” and whose parting word was “Already?” Only (unlike that famous hostess) through her greetings unmistakably rang the note of sincerity.
Everybody wandered about in delightfully informal fashion. Doctor Terhune and General Buffington gossiped of old times in one corner; “Marion Harland,” Margaret E. Sangster, May Riley Smith, and two or three others made an interesting group in another, and reminiscences were so beautiful and so many—“Do you remember when we used to do this or that?”—the sentence most constantly heard—that unconsciously you began to regret that you, yourself, had not lived in those days, so splendid seemed the sentiment and the honor of the times.
Everybody came who could. Some had travelled all day to get there, and must travel all night to get home again. Letters—there were hundreds of them, for it seemed that everybody who even knew her slightly, wanted to send some word of greeting to “Marion Harland.”