In the Lantern Light.
An account of the marriage, written by an effusive correspondent, was published in a newspaper at the State Capital; and a few days later the same journal contained an editorial bearing upon the subject, taking the populistic party to task for its lamentable want of sense in legislation. The State press took the matter up, and then the "paragrapher" had his season of merry-making. "We have always heard it declared," said one, "that marriage is a plunge in the dark, but a preacher over at Old Ebenezer proves that it is all a joke." And this from another one: "'What do you think of young Parson Bostic?' was asked of Banker McElwin. 'I didn't think he was loaded,' the financier replied." It was said that a great batch of this drivel was cut out, credited and sent to McElwin, and Lyman accused Warren, but he denied it, though not with convincing grace.
One evening a picnic was given on the lawn of a prominent citizen. It had been heralded as a moonlight event, but the moon was sullen and the light was shed from paper lanterns hung in the trees. There was to be no dancing and no forfeit games, for McElwin was still raw, and the master of the gathering on the lawn would not dare to throw sand on the spots where the rich man's prideful skin had been raked off. The entertainment was to consist of talk among the older ones, chatter among the slips of girls and striplings of men, with music for all.
"You will have to go to write it up," Warren said to Lyman.
"It won't be necessary to go," Lyman replied. "We can hold a pleasanter memory of such events if we don't really see them. I can write of it from a distance."
"Yes, but that isn't enterprise, and we want to prove to these people that we are enterprising. They must see you on the ground."
"All right."
"You will go, then?"
"That's what I meant when I said all right."