“You betcher life it is!” murmured Martha complacently to herself, after Claire had hastened off to confer with the children and plan a program for the great day.

Ma to make the wedding-cake!  Cora to recite her “piece.”  Francie and Sammy to be dressed as pages and bear, each, a tray spread with the gifts it was to be her own task and privilege to contrive.  Sabina to hover over all as a sort of Cupid, who, if somewhat “hefty” as to avoirdupois, was in all other respects a perfect little Love.

It seemed as if the intervening days were winged, so fast they flew.  Claire never could have believed there was so much to be done for such a simple festival, and, of course, the entire weight fell on her shoulders, for Ma was as much of a child in such matters as any, and Martha could not be appealed to, being the bride, and, moreover, being away at the great house, where tremendous changes were in progress.

But at last came the wonderful day, and everything was in readiness.

First, a forenoon of small explosive delights for the children—­then, as the day waned, a dinner eaten outdoors, picnic-fashion on the grass, under the spreading trees, beneath the shadows of the mighty mountain-tops.

What difference if Ma’s cake, crowning a perfect feast, had suffered a little in the frosting and its touching sentiment, traced in snowy lettering upon a bridal-white ground, did read

FIFTEEN YEARS OF MARRED LIFE.

It is sometimes one’s ill-luck to misspell a word, and though a wedding-cake is usually large and this was no exception, the space was limited, and, besides, no one but Sam senior and Miss Lang noticed it anyhow.

A quizzical light in his eye, Mr. Slawson scrawled on a scrap of paper which he passed to Claire (with apologies for the liberty) the words: 

“She’d been nearer the truth if she’d left out the two rrs while she was about it, and had it: 

FIFTEEN YEARS OF MA’D LIFE.”

Then came Cora’s piece.

Her courtesy, right foot back, knees suddenly bent, right hand on left side (presumably over heart, actually over stomach), chin diving into the bony hollow of her neck—­Cora’s courtesy was a thing to be remembered.

LADY CLARE

She announced it with ceremony, and this time, Martha noticed, the recalcitrant garter held fast to its moorings.

“’’Twas the time when lilies blow And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe—­’”

"His!" prompted Martha in a loud stage-whisper. "His—­not ’a’—­”

Cora accepted the correction obediently, but her self-confidence was shaken.  She managed to stammer,

“‘Give t-to—­his c-cousin, L-Lady C-Clare,’”

and then a storm of tears set in, drowning her utterance.

“Well, what do you think o’ that?” exclaimed Martha, amazed at the undue sensitiveness of her offspring.  “Never mind, Cora!  You done it grand!—­as far as you went.”