“Well, I hadn’t thought of it for quite some time,” returned Miss Hulett, in exactly the same tone of everyday remark.  As she spoke she slipped her arm under the other’s head and poked the pillow up to a more comfortable shape.  “Now you lay perfectly still,” she commanded in the hectoring tone of the born nurse; “I’m goin’ to run down and make you up a good hot cup of sassafras tea.”

I followed her down into the kitchen and was met by the same refusal to be melodramatic which I had encountered in Ev’leen Ann.  I was most anxious to know what version of my extraordinary morning I was to give out to the world, but hung silent, positively abashed by the cool casualness of the other woman as she mixed her brew.  Finally, “Shall I tell ’Niram—­What shall I say to Ev’leen Ann?  If anybody asks me—­” I brought out with clumsy hesitation.

At the realization that her reserve and family pride were wholly at the mercy of any report I might choose to give, even my iron hostess faltered.  She stopped short in the middle of the floor, looked at me silently, piteously, and found no word.

I hastened to assure her that I would attempt no hateful picturesqueness of narration.  “Suppose I just say that you were rather lonely here, now that Ev’leen Ann has left you, and that you thought it would be nice to have your sister come to stay with you, so that ’Niram and Ev’leen Ann can be married?”

Emma Hulett breathed again.  She walked toward the stairs with the steaming cup in her hand.  Over her shoulder she remarked, “Well, yes, ma’am; that would be as good a way to put it as any, I guess.”

’Niram and Ev’leen Ann were standing up to be married.  They looked very stiff and self-conscious, and Ev’leen Ann was very pale.  ’Niram’s big hands, bent in the crook of a man who handles tools, hung down by his new black trousers.  Ev’leen Ann’s strong fingers stood out stiffly from one another.  They looked hard at the minister and repeated after him in low and meaningless tones the solemn and touching words of the marriage service.  Back of them stood the wedding company, in freshly washed and ironed white dresses, new straw hats, and black suits smelling of camphor.  In the background, among the other elders, stood Paul and Horace and I—­my husband and I hand in hand; Horace twiddling the black ribbon which holds his watch, and looking bored.  Through the open windows into the stuffiness of the best room came an echo of the deep organ note of midsummer.

“Whom God hath joined together—­” said the minister, and the epitome of humanity which filled the room held its breath—­the old with a wonder upon their life-scarred faces, the young half frightened to feel the stir of the great wings soaring so near them.