No one knows to this day how all the guests that came managed to crowd themselves into the old house, but they did, and no less than thirty of them sat down at the table with the bride and bridegroom. There was scarcely one imprint of footsteps in the new-fallen snow that night that did not point in the direction of the Bakery.
A little after nine o’clock, the musicians arrived, Tom Drinkwater with his fiddle, and Mr. Mellitz with his trombone in a huge green felt case, and Frank Fisher with his harp and old Mr. Gilroy with his cello. They settled themselves in a corner, tuned up a bit, and then the dancing began.
It was with immeasurable pride that on this occasion, Mr. Lambert welcomed Mr. Sheridan amongst his guests—Mr. Timothy Sheridan, nephew to the late Major, and of a family that had had its roots in Frederickstown as long as the Winklers themselves, or nearly. Lily was a bridesmaid, and it was with her that Mr. Lambert himself started the dancing. Mrs. Deacon was there, gorgeous in purple and plumes, the Websters in a solid phalanx—in fact there was not a face that was familiar in Frederickstown that was not to be seen that night glowing with satisfaction and good will and personal enjoyment under the roof of the Lambert-Winkler dwelling.
It was when the general merriment was at its height that Jane, laden with a tray of refreshments approached the overheated musicians who were scraping and blowing and thumping away in that corner of the dining room from which Mr. Lambert’s desk—as an article that harmonized too little with the elegance of the occasion—had been temporarily banished.
“In another four or five years or so, we’ll be making music at your wedding no doubt—if we live, eh?” said old Elias Gilroy at last laying aside his cello for a moment, to take a long draught of cider. When he came out of the mug, wiping his grizzled moustaches delicately on a blue polka dot handkerchief he winked merrily at Jane, who had sat down beside him.
“And why aren’t you twirling round with the boys, my lassie?” he went on affectionately, now helping himself to a gigantic slice of cake.
“I came over to watch you—and besides, I’d rather look on,” said Jane, carefully smoothing out the skirt of her new blue silk dress. “Shall I get you some more cider, Mr. Gilroy?”
“Well—I’ll not trouble you,” said he, uncertainly, “though if there’s plenty to be had—”
“There’s lots. There’s lots and lots of everything!” cried Jane. “I’ll bring a pitcher!”
When the enthusiastic musicians had had “fresh heart put into ’em” as Mr. Gilroy said, she stood by watching them tune up their instruments for a new onslaught on the famous, lively measures of “Old Uncle Ned.”