Mrs. Robinson was a good manager of the moderate means her husband had left her, but she was not parsimonious or inhospitable.  Now she was actuated by a fierce maternal jealousy.  Esther, despite her pleasant ways and her helpfulness, was often overlooked in a social way.  This was due to her mother.  The more pretentious laughed about Mrs. Robinson, and though the thrifty, contented housewife never missed the amenities which might have been extended to her, she was keenly alive to any slights put upon her daughter.  And so it was now.

Mrs. Lawrence, a rich, childless old lady, lived next door, and about four o’clock she went over there.  The girl watched her departure doubtfully, but the possibility of not having a large wedding kept her from giving a full expression to her feelings.

Esther had always dreamed of her wedding; she had looked forward to it just as definitely before she met Joe Elsworth as after her engagement to him.  There would be flowers and guests and feasting, and she would be the centre of it all in a white dress and veil.

She had never thought about there being any presents.  Now for the first time she thought of them as an added glory, but her imagination did not extend to the separate articles or to their givers.  Esther never pictured her uncle Jonas at the wedding, yet he would surely be in attendance in his rough farmer clothes, his grizzled, keen old face towering above the other guests.  She did not picture her friends as she really knew them; the young men would be fine gentlemen, and the girls ladies in wonderful toilets.  As for herself and Joe, hidden away in a bureau drawer Esther had a poster of one of Frohman’s plays.  It represented a bride and groom standing together in a drift of orange blossoms.

Mrs. Robinson did not return at supper-time, and Esther ate alone.  At eight o’clock Joe Elsworth came.  She met him at the door, and they kissed in the entry.  Then Joe preceded her in, and hung up his cap on a projecting knob of the what-not—­that was where he always put it.  He glanced into the dining-room and took in the waiting table.

“Haven’t you had supper yet!”

“Mother isn’t home.”

He came towards her swiftly; his eyes shone with a sudden elated tenderness.  She raised her arms and turned away her face, but he swept aside the ineffectual barrier.  When he let her go she seated herself on the farther side of the room.  Her glance was full of a soft rebuke.  He met it, then looked down smilingly and awkwardly at his shoes.

“Where did you say your ma had gone?”

“She’s gone to Mis’ Lawrence’s, and a few other places.”

“Oh, calling.  Old Mis’ Norton goes about twice a year, and I ask her what it amounts to.”

“I guess you’ll find ma’s calls’ll amount to something.”

“How’s that?” he demanded.

“She’s—­going to try and find out what they intend giving.”