Mrs. Beaver was a born manager; she had managed her husband into an untimely grave, she had managed her daughter from the hour she was born, she had dismissed three preachers, induced two women to leave their husbands, and now dogmatically announced herself arbiter of fashions and conduct in Rear Ninth Street.

“No, she can’t see you,” she said firmly in reply to Joe’s question.  “She’s going out to a dance party with Mr. Schenk.”

“Where at?” demanded Joe, who still trembled in her presence.

“Somewheres down town,” said Mrs. Beaver, “to a real swell party.”

“He oughtn’t to take her to no down-town dance,” said Joe, his indignation getting the better of his shyness.  “I don’t want her to go, and I’m going to tell her so.”

“In-deed!” said Mrs. Beaver in scorn.  “And what have you got to say about it?  I guess Mr. Schenk’s got the right to take her anywhere he wants to!”

“What right?” demanded Joe, getting suddenly a bit dizzy.

“’Cause he’s got engaged to her.  He’s going to give her a real handsome turquoise ring, fourteen-carat gold.”

“Didn’t Mittie send me no word?” faltered Joe.

“No,” said Mrs. Beaver unhesitatingly, though she had in her pocket a note for him from the unhappy Mittie.

Joe fumbled for his hat.  “I guess I better be goin’,” he said, a lump rising ominously in his throat.  He got the gate open and made his way half dazed around the corner.  As he did so, he saw a procession of small Ridders bearing joyously down upon him.

“Joe!” shrieked Lottie, arriving first, “Maw says hurry on home; we got another new baby to our house.”

During the weeks that followed, Rear Ninth Street was greatly thrilled over the unusual event of a home wedding.  The reticence of the groom was more than made up for by the bulletins of news issued daily by Mrs. Beaver.  To use that worthy lady’s own words, “she was in her elements!” She organised various committees—­on decoration, on refreshment, and even on the bride’s trousseau, tactfully permitting each assistant to contribute in some way to the general grandeur of the occasion.

“I am going to have this a real showy wedding,” she said from her point of vantage by the parlour window, where she sat like a field-marshal and issued her orders.  “Those paper fringes want to go clean across every one of the shelves, and you all must make enough paper roses to pin ’round the edges of all the curtains.  Ever’thing’s got to look gay and festive.”

“Mittie don’t look very gay,” ventured one of the assistants.  “I seen her in the kitchen cryin’ a minute ago.”

“Mittie’s a fool!” announced Mrs. Beaver calmly.  “She don’t know a good thing when she sees it!  Get them draperies up a little higher in the middle; I’m going to hang a silver horseshoe on to the loop.”

The wedding night arrived, and the Beaver cottage was filled to suffocation with the elite of Rear Ninth Street.  The guests found it difficult to circulate freely in the room on account of the elaborate and aggressive decorations, so they stood in silent rows awaiting the approaching ceremony.  As the appointed hour drew near, and none of the groom’s family arrived, a few whispered comments were exchanged.