The Dickey home was all warmth, merriment, and joyous confusion.  Three or four young matrons, their best silk gowns stretched to bursting over their swelling bosoms, went busily in and out of the dining-room.  In the double parlors guests were gathering with the laughter and kissing that marked any coming together of these hard-working folk.  Starched and awed little children sat on the laps of mothers and aunts, blinking at the lamps; the very small babies were upstairs, some drowsily enjoying a late supper in their mothers’ arms, others already deep in sleep in Mrs. Dickey’s bed.  The downstairs rooms and the stairway were decorated with wilting smilax and early fruit-blossoms.

To Deaneville it seemed quite natural that Dr. Lowell, across whose face the scar of Shandon Waters’ whip still showed a dull crimson, should wait for his bride at the foot of the hall stairway, and that Mary’s attendants should keep up a continual coming and going between the room where she was dressing and the top of the stairs, and should have a great many remarks to make to the young men below.  Presently a little stir announced the clergyman, and a moment later every one could hear Mary Dickey’s thrilling young voice from the upper hallway: 

“Arnold, mother says was that Dr. Lacey?”

And every one could hear Dr. Lowell’s honest, “Yes, dear, it was,” and Mary’s fluttered, diminishing, “All right!”

Rain began to beat noisily on the roof and the porches.  Johnnie Larabee came downstairs with Grandpa and Grandma Arnold, and Rosamund Dinwoodie at the piano said audibly, “Now, Johnnie?”

There was expectant silence in the parlors.  The whole house was so silent in that waiting moment that the sound of sudden feet on the porch and the rough opening of the hall door were a startlingly loud interruption.

It was Shandon Waters, who came in with a bitter rush of storm and wet air.  She had little Dan in her arms.  Drops of rain glittered on her hanging braids and on the shawl with which the child was wrapped, and beyond her the wind snarled and screamed like a disappointed animal.  She went straight through the frightened, parting group to Mrs. Larabee, and held out the child.

“Johnnie,” she said in a voice of agony, utterly oblivious of her surroundings, “Johnnie, you’ve always been my friend!  Danny’s sick!”

“Shandon,—­for pity’s sake!” ejaculated little Mrs. Larabee, reaching out her arms for Danny, her face shocked and protesting and pitying all at once, “Why, Shandy, you should have waited for me over at the hotel,” she said, in a lower tone, with a glance at the incongruous scene.  Then pity for the anguished face gained mastery, and she added tenderly, “Well, you poor child, you, was this where you was walking this afternoon?  My stars, if I’d only known!  Why on earth didn’t you drive?”

“I couldn’t wait!” said Shandon, hoarsely.  “We were out in the woods, and Lizzie she gave Danny some mushrooms.  And when I looked he—­his little mouth—­” she choked.  “And then he began to have sorta cramps, and kinda doubled up, Johnnie, and he cried so queer, and I jest started up here on a run.  He—­Johnnie!” terror shook her voice when she saw the other’s face, “Johnnie, is he going to die?” she said.