The merriment ceased when Ruth disappeared and came back in a
dark-blue travelling dress and Jack in a brown suit. We were all
in the doorway, our hands filled with rose petals--no worn-out
slippers or hail of rice for this bride--when she tried to slip
through in a dash for the carriage, but the dear lady caught and
held her, clasping the girl to her heart, kissing her lips, her
forehead, her hands--she could be very tender when she loved
anybody; and she loved Ruth as her life; Peter and her father
going ahead to hold open the door where they had their kisses and
handshakes, their blessings, and their last words all to
themselves.
The honeymoon slipped away as do all honeymoons, and one crisp,
cool December day a lumbering country stage containing two
passengers struggled up a steep hill and stopped before a long,
rambling building nearing completion. All about were piles of
partly used lumber, broken bundles of shingles, empty barrels, and
abandoned mortar beds. Straight from the low slanting roof with
its queer gables, rose a curl of blue smoke, telling of comfort
and cheer within.
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