And such a flutter of expectancy and romance and joy as pervaded the place!  All the youth of Clayton was there, loitering about the grounds in gay little groups, or lingering in couples under the shadow of the big porches.

In the library Judge and Mrs. Hollis did the honors, and presented the guests to little Miss Merritt, whose cordial, homely greetings counteracted the haughty disapproval of the portraits overhead.

Mr. Moseley rambled through the rooms, indulging in a flowing monologue which was as independent of an audience as a summer brook.

Mr. Meech sought a secluded spot under the stairway and nervously practised the wedding service, while Mrs. Meech, tucked up for once in her life, smiled bravely on the company, and thought of a little green mound in the cemetery, which Sandy had helped her keep bright with flowers.

They were all there, Dr. Fenton slapping everybody on the back and roaring at his own jokes; Sid Gray carrying Annette’s flowers with a look of plump complacency; Jimmy Reed constituting himself a bureau of information, giving and soliciting news concerning wedding presents, destination of wedding journey, and future plans.

Up-stairs, at a hall window, the groom was living through rapturous throes of anticipation.  For the hundredth time he made sure the ring was in the left pocket of his waistcoat.

From down-stairs came the hum of voices mingled with the music.  The warm breath of coming summer stole through the window.

Sandy looked joyously out across the fields of waving blue-grass to the shining river.  Down by the well was an old windmill, and at its top a weather-vane.  When he spied it he smiled.  Once again he was a ragged youngster, back on the Liverpool dock; the fog was closing in, and the coarse voices of the sailors rang in his ears.  In quick flashes the scenes of his boyhood came before him,—­the days on shipboard, on the road with Ricks, at the Exposition, at Hollis Farm, at the university,—­and through them all that golden thread of romance that had led him safe and true to the very heart of the enchanted land where he was to dwell forever.

“‘Fore de Lawd, Mist’ Sandy, ef you ain’t fergit yer necktie!”

It was Aunt Melvy who burst in upon his reverie with these ominous words.  She had been expected to assist with the wedding breakfast, but the events above-stairs had proved too alluring.

Sandy’s hand flew to his neck.  “It’s at the farm,” he cried in great excitement, “wrapped in tissue-paper in the top drawer.  Send Jim, or Joe, or Nick—­any of the darkies you can find!”

“Send nuthin’,” muttered Aunt Melvy, shuffling down the stairs.  “I’s gwine myself, ef I has to take de bridal kerridge.”

Messengers were sent in hot haste, one to the farm and one to town, while Jimmy Reed was detailed to canvass the guests and see if a white four-in-hand might be procured.