His absolute fire died away into the description of conscience torment, and through his later years the mellow ripeness of new thought took in large part the place of the old.  Mr. Davis was very anxious concerning his health, and we did not wonder, for his cheeks grew pale and thin.  He seemed much older than he really was, and in two years of time had gained ten in the defining face lines.  These were, it seemed, ineffaceable, and as the months wore on grew deeper still.

Matthias’ marriage came off in September, and our whole household were invited.  Aunt Hildy said she’d send them something, “but no weddins for me,” and she shook her head when I asked whether she was going.

Mother was busy and did not feel like sparing the time, so at last, Clara, Louis and I went over, and Mrs. Davis came with her husband, who performed the ceremony in a pleasant way.  I think no couple ever had just such wedding presents.  A blanket and some home-spun towels from Aunt Hildy; a large silk bandana handkerchief, a chintz dress pattern, and a little bead purse with some bits of gold from Clara (how much I never knew), and from Louis a load of shingles, and the services of a carpenter to re-shingle the little house, with some sensible gifts from Hal and our people.  Aunt Peg was beside herself with joy which she could not express to suit her, and at last she said, “won’t try to tell you nothin’—­can’t do it.”

Mr. and Mrs. Davis stayed only a few minutes after the ceremony, but we three had a long chat with our good friends, and when we left them at the door, tears of gratitude fell from Aunt Peg’s eyes.  I looked back, after we had started toward home, to see them sitting on the door stone side by side, and their dark faces resting in the shadow of the Cyprus vine was a pleasant picture.

“Their cup runneth over,” said Louis; “I am glad and ’we shall rejoice with those that rejoice, and mourn, with those that mourn.’”

“Another Bible quotation, Louis?”

“Yes,” said he, “and why may we not have these truths, like blessed realities, walk side by side with us through life.  Every day might let the sunshine into the room of our thought, through the bars of understanding that stand as defining lines between them.

“Mr. Davis says you are to be a preacher.  I believe you are already,” said I.

“Would my Emily object?  I think not, for has not little mother said, ‘Emily will do it, Emily will help you?’”

I did not answer with words, but my eyes spoke volumes, and he read them truly.

Letters came to us monthly from our Southern Mary, and Clara often said she had hope of seeing her again.  Mrs. Chadwick had kept track of Mrs. Benton, and that strange compound of villainy and taste—­her husband—­had really been touched by Mary’s plea and was living with his family.  I could hardly believe it, and when Hal stepped in one evening with “love’s fawn” at his side, and a letter from that veritable Benton, we had a grand surprise.  I will not try to tell you of this well written epistle, but this interesting item I will relate; here are his words:  “You will doubtless be surprised when I say I am married and keeping house.  I found my wife here; she has two nice boys.  If you come to this part of the globe, as I hope you will, call on us.  You will be welcome.”