Great was the excitement in Rice Corner when it was known that on the evening of the tenth of September a grand wedding would take place, at the house of Mrs. Mason.  Mary was to be married to the “richest man in Boston,” so the story ran, and what was better yet, many of the neighbors were to be invited.  Almost every day, whether pleasant or not, Jenny Lincoln came over to discuss the matter, and to ask if it were not time to send for William, who was to be one of the groomsmen, while she, together with Ida, were to officiate as bridesmaids.  In this last capacity Ella had been requested to act, but the tears came quickly to her large mournful eyes, and turning away she wondered how Mary could thus mock her grief!

From one fashionable watering place to another Mrs. Campbell had taken her, and finding that nothing there had power to rouse her drooping energies, she had, towards the close of the summer, brought her back to Chicopee, hoping that old scenes and familiar faces would effect what novelty and excitement had failed to do.  All unworthy as Henry Lincoln had been, his sad death had cast a dark shadow across Ella’s pathway.  Hour after hour would she sit, gazing upon the locks of shining hair, which over land and sea had come to her in a letter from the father, who told her of the closing scene, when Henry called for her, to cool the heat of his fevered brow.  Every word and look of tenderness was treasured up, and the belief fondly cherished that he had always loved her thus, else why in the last fearful struggle was she alone remembered of all the dear ones in his distant home?

Not even the excitement of her sister’s approaching marriage could awaken in her the least interest, and if it were mentioned in her presence she would weep, wondering what she had done that Mary should be so much happier than herself, and Mrs. Campbell remembering the past, could but answer in her heart that it was just.  Sometimes Ella accused her sister of neglect, saying she had no thought for any one, except George Moreland, and his elegant house in Boston.  It was in vain that Mary strove to convince her of her mistake.  She only shook her head, hoping her sister would never know what it was to be wretched and desolate as she was.  Mary could have told her of many weary days and sleepless nights, when there shone no star of hope in her dark sky, and when even her only sister turned from her in scorn; but she would not, and wiping away the tears which Ella’s unkindness had called forth, she went back to her home, where busy preparations were making for her bridal.

Never before had Mrs. Perkins, or the neighborhood generally, had so much upon their hands at one time.  Two dressmakers were sewing for Mary.  A colored cook, with a flaming red turban, came up from Worcester to superintend the culinary department, and a week before the wedding Aunt Martha also arrived, bringing with her a quantity of cut glass of all sizes and dimensions, the uses of which could not even be guessed, though the widow declared upon her honor, a virtue by which she always swore, that two of them were called “cellar dishes,” adding that the “Lord only knew what that was!”