In the bridal party Beverly and I walked in front, followed by the two girls in the white Greek robes which they had worn at the school frolic at St. Ann’s, and wearing their headbands, the one of silver and turquoise, the other of silver and coral.  Then came Rex Krane and Bill Banney.  Poor Bill!  Nobody guessed that night that the bridal blossoms were flowers on the coffin of his dead hope.  And last of all, Esmond Clarenden and Mat Nivers, with shining eyes, leaning on his arm.  I had never seen Uncle Esmond in evening dress before, nor dreamed how splendid a figure he could make for a drawing-room in the costume in which he was so much at ease.  But the handsomest man of all the large company gathered there that night was Jondo, big, broad-shouldered Jondo, his deep-blue eyes bright with joy for these two.  And in the background was Aunty Boone, resplendent in a new red calico besprinkled with her favorite white dots, her head turbaned in a yellow silk bandana, and about her neck a strand of huge green glass beads.  Her eyes glistened as she watched that night’s events, and her comfortable ejaculations of approval were like the low purr of a satisfied cat.  Then came the solemn pledges, the benediction and congratulations.  There was merrymaking and singing, cake and unfermented wine of grapes for refreshing, and much good will that night.

When the guests were gone and the lights, save one kitchen candle, were all out, I had slipped from the dining-room with the last burden of dishes, when I paused a minute beside the open kitchen window to let the midnight breeze cool my face.

On the side porch, a little affair made to shelter the doorway, I saw Beverly Clarenden and Little Blue Flower.  He was speaking gently, but with his blunt frankness, as he patted the two brown hands clinging to his arm.  The Indian girl’s white draperies were picturesque anywhere.  In this dramatic setting they were startlingly beautiful, and her face, outlined in the dim light, was a thing rare to see.  I could not hear her words, but her soft Hopi voice had a tender tone.

I was waiting to let them pass in when I heard Beverly’s voice, and I saw him bend over the little maiden, and, putting one arm around her, he drew her close to him and kissed her forehead.  I knew it was a brother’s sympathetic act—­and all men know how dangerous a thing that is; that there are no ties binding brother to sister except the bonds of kindred blood.  The girl slipped inside the dining-room door, and a minute later a candle flickered behind her bedroom window-blind in the gable of the house.  I waited for Beverly to go, determined never to mention what I had seen, when I caught the clear low voice whose tones could make my pulse thresh in its walls.

“Beverly, Beverly, it breaks my heart—­” I lost the remainder of the sentence, but Beverly’s words were clear and direct and full of a frank surprise.

“Eloise, do you really care?”