“Bless mel I never figured on this.” Philip looked his amazement. “What will you do then, Franz?”
“When she is able to travel, I suppose it means Florida, or the Bermudas.”
Philip had risen and gathered himself together while making the circuit of the room.
“I declare, I didn't congratulate you, did I? To be sure, old fellow, the thought of losing you is not agreeable.”
“If you will, Philip, you can be of great service to me.”
“I was about to volunteer,” said Philip heartily, “but you swept me squarely off my feet.”
On the authority of Perkins—“It was a mighty jolly wedding.”
The ceremony was performed in Margaret's own room and during its progress she lay upon a lounge, looking as fair as the lilies-of-the-valley in her hands, which Perkins had given her, after liberally bedewing them with his tears dropped in sentimental secrecy.
The sun was sinking far across the white fields, and the gold of its dying flames stole in through the windows, lighting up the room, as Franz, standing at Margaret's side, gave her his name and the protection of his love.
Mrs. Perkins and Franz's mother wept profusely, and Perkins disgraced himself in his own estimation by sobbing aloud in stifled tones be vainly sought to suppress on peril of choking. He finally retreated to the hall, where he encountered Russell with a limp handkerchief—“making an ass of herself, too.”