I came back with them, there was a small willow basket in the center of our improvised table, heaped high with pears, apples, and grapes all a little the worse for their long journey from New York State to Wyoming, but still things of beauty and a joy as long as they lasted to Wyoming eyes and appetites.  We had a perfectly roasted leg of lamb; we had mint sauce, a pyramid of flaky mashed potatoes, a big dish of new peas, a plate of sponge-cake I will be long in forgetting; and the blue jar was full of grape marmalade.  Our iced tea was exactly right; the pieces of ice clinked pleasantly against our glasses.  We took our time, and we were all happy.  We could all see the beautiful sunset, its last rays lingering on Miss Em’ly’s abundant auburn hair to make happy the bride the sun shines on.  We saw the wonderful colors—­orange, rose, and violet—­creep up and fade into darker shades, until at last mellow dusk filled the room.  Then I took the kiddies to my room to be put to bed while I should wait until time for the ceremony.

Soon the babies were sleeping, and Jerrine and I went into the sitting-room.  They were sitting on the “sofy.”  She was telling him that the apples had come from the tree they had played under, the pears from the tree they had set out, the grapes from the vine over the well.  She told him of things packed in her boxes, everything a part of the past they both knew.  He in turn told her of his struggles, his successes, and some of what he called his failures.  She was a most encouraging little person, and she’d say to him, “You did well, Bishey.  I’ll say that for you:  you did well!” Then he told her about the flowers he had planted for her.  I understood then why he acted so queerly about my flowers.  It happens that I am partial to old-time favorites, and I grow as many of them as I can get to succeed in this altitude; so I have zinnias, marigolds, hollyhocks, and many other dear old flowers that my mother loved.  Many of them had been the favorites of Miss Em’ly’s childhood, but Bishey hadn’t remembered the names; so he had visited us all, and when he found a flower he remembered, he asked the name and how we grew it, then he tried it, until at last he had about all.  Miss Em’ly wiped the tears from her eyes as she remarked, “Bishey, you did well; yes, you did real well.”  I thought to myself how well we could all do if we were so encouraged.

At last the white-haired old justice of the peace came, and said the words that made Emily Wheeler the wife of Abisha Bennet.  A powerfully noisy but truly friendly crowd wished them well.  One polite fellow asked her where she was from.  She told him from New York State.  “Why,” he asked, “do New Yorkers always say State?” “Why, because,” she answered,—­and her eyes were big with surprise,—­“no one would want to say they were from New York City.”