“It’s ’most time to begin,” whispered the preacher to Mrs. Beaver, whose keen black eyes had been watching the door with growing impatience.

“Well, we won’t wait on nobody,” she said positively, as she rose and left the room to give the signal.

In the kitchen she found great consternation:  the bride, pale and dejected in all her finery, sat on the table, all the chairs being in the parlour.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Mrs. Beaver.

“He ain’t come!” announced one of the women in tragic tones.

“Ben Schenk ain’t here?” asked Mrs. Beaver in accents so awful that her listeners quaked.  “Well, I’ll see the reason why!”

Out into the night she sallied, picking her way around the puddles until she reached the saloon at the corner.

“Where’s Ben Schenk?” she demanded sternly of the men around the bar.

There was an ominous silence, broken only by the embarrassed shuffling of feet.

Drawing herself up, Mrs. Beaver thumped the counter.

“Where’s he at?” she repeated, glaring at the most embarrassed of the lot.

“He don’t know where he’s at,” said the man.  “I rickon he cilebrated a little too much fer the weddin’.”

“Can he stand up?” demanded Mrs. Beaver.

“Not without starchin’,” said the man, and amid the titter that followed, Mrs. Beaver made her exit.

On the corner she paused to reconnoitre.  Across the street was her gaily lighted cottage, where all the guests were waiting.  She thought of the ignominy that would follow their abrupt dismissal, she thought of the refreshments that must be used to-night or never, she thought of the little bride sitting disconsolate on the kitchen table.

With a sudden determination she decided to lead a forlorn hope.  Facing about, she marched weightily around to the rear of the saloon and began laboriously to climb the steps that lead to the hall.  At the door she paused and made a rapid survey of the room until she found what she was looking for.

“Joe Ridder!” she called peremptorily.

Joe, haggard and listless, put down his billiard-cue and came to the door.

Five minutes later a breathless figure presented himself at the Beaver kitchen.  He had on a clean shirt and his Sunday clothes, and while he wore no collar, a clean handkerchief was neatly pinned about his neck.

“Everybody but the bride and groom come into the parlour,” commanded Mrs. Beaver.  “I’m a-going to make a speech, and tell ’em that the bride has done changed her mind.”

Joe and Mittie, left alone, looked at each other in dazed rapture.  She was the first to recover.

“Joe!” she cried, moving timidly towards him, “ain’t you mad?  Do you still want me?”

Joe, with both hands entangled in her veil and his feet lost in her train, looked down at her through swimming eyes.

“Want yer?” he repeated, and his lips trembled, “gee whiz!  I feel like I done ribbeted a hoop round the hull world!”