When about three miles from the village the lady started up, saying, "she had left her shawl, and must go back immediately."
"There is not time," said the doctor, "for the sun is already nearly set. It will be perfectly safe."
"But it's my India shawl. I must have it," and the lady's hand was laid upon the reins to turn the horses' heads.
Of course they went back, finding the shawl, not at the hotel, but under the carriage cushions, where the lady herself had placed it.
"It's a maxim of mine to know what I'm about," the doctor ventured to say, while a silvery voice returned, "So do I ordinarily, but it is not strange that I forget myself on my wedding day." This was well timed, and wrapping the garment carefully round her to shelter her from the night air, the doctor bade the highly amused John to drive on. They were more than halfway home when some luscious oranges in a small grocery window, caught the bride's eye, and "she must have some, she always kept them in her room," she said, and to the grocer's inquiry, "How many, madam?" she answered, "Two dozen, at least, and a box of figs, if you have them. I dote on figs."
It was the doctor's wedding day. He could not say no, and with a mental groan he parted company with another bill, while John, on the platform without, danced the "double shuffle" in token of his delight. There was a second grocery to be passed, but by taking a more circuitous route it could be avoided, and the discomfited bridegroom bade John "go through the Hollow."
"Yes, sar," answered the knowing negro, turning the heads of the unwilling horses in a direction which would not bring them home so soon by one whole hour.
But the grocery was shunned, and so the doctor did not care even if the clock did strike nine just as they stopped at their own gate. The night was dark and the bride could not distinguish the exterior of the house, neither was the interior plainly discernible, lighted as it was with an oil lamp, and a single tallow candle. But she scarcely thought of this, so intent was she upon the beautiful face of the crippled boy, who sat in his armchair, eagerly awaiting her arrival.
"This is Louis," the father said: and the scornful eyes which with one rapid glance had scanned the whole apartment filled with tears as they, turned toward the boy.
Dropping on one knee before him, the lady, parted the silken hair from his forehead, saying very gently, "You must be like your mother, save that your eyes are brown, and hers were blue. May I be your mother, Louis?"