“Now, Dab, my boy, this suit is to be a present from me to you, on Miranda’s account.”

Dab colored and hesitated for a moment:  but it seemed all right, he thought; and so he came frankly out with,—­

“Thank you, Ham.  You always was a prime good fellow.  I’ll do as much for you some day.  Tell you what I’ll do, then:  I’ll have another suit made right away, of this other cloth, and have the bill for that one sent to our folks.”

“Do it!” exclaimed Ham.  “Do it!  You’ve your mother’s orders for that.  She’s nothing to do with my gift.”

“Splendid!” almost shouted Dab.  “Oh, but don’t I hope they’ll fit!”

“Vit,” said the tailor:  “vill zay vit?  I dell you zay vit you like a knife.  You vait und zee.”

Dab failed to get a very clear idea of what the fit would be, but it made him almost hold his breath to think of it.

After the triumphant visit to the tailor, there was still a necessity for a call upon the shoemaker, and that was a matter of no small importance.  Dab’s feet had always been a mystery and a trial to him.  If his memory contained one record darker than another, it was the endless history of his misadventures with boots and shoes.  He and leather had been at war from the day he left his creeping-clothes until now.  But now he was promised a pair of shoes that would be sure to fit.

So the question of Dab’s personal appearance at the wedding was all arranged between him and Ham; and Miranda smiled more sweetly than ever before upon the latter, after she had heard her usually silent brother break out so enthusiastically about him as he did that evening.

It was a good thing for that wedding, that it took place in fine summer weather; for neither kith, kin, nor acquaintances had been slighted in the invitations, and the Kinzers were one of the “oldest families.”

To have gathered them all under the roof of that house, without either stretching it out wider or boiling the guests down, would have been out of the question; and so the majority, with Dabney in his new clothes to keep them countenance, stood out in the cool shade of the grand old trees during the ceremony, which was performed near the open door; and were afterwards served with the refreshments in a style which spoke volumes for Mrs. Kinzer’s good management, as well as for her hospitality.

The only drawback to Dab’s happiness that day was that his acquaintances hardly seemed to know him.  He had had almost the same trouble with himself, when he looked in the glass that morning.

Ordinarily, his wrists were several inches through his coat-sleeves, and his ankles made a perpetual show of his stockings.  His neck, too, seemed to be holding his head as far as possible from his coat-collar, and his buttons had no favors to ask of his button-holes.

Now, even as the tailor had promised, he had received his “first fit.”  He seemed to himself, to tell the truth, to be covered up in a prodigal waste of new cloth.  Would he ever, ever, grow too big for such a suit of clothes as that?  It was a very painful thought, and he did his best to put it away from him.