“Nor I,” said Ann.  “It was the most perfect little wedding I ever saw.  Not a hitch anywhere.  And wasn’t the house a bower?  I never had so much fun at any wedding in my life.  Bess was so fresh and gay, and she and George helped us until the very last minute—­do you remember?—­gathering the roses and wrapping the cake.  It was all ideal!”

“Bess told me the other day,” said Rosemary, soberly, and in a lowered tone, “that on her wedding-day, when she was dressed, you know, mamma put on her veil, and pinned on the orange blossoms, and kissed her.  And Bess saw the tears in her eyes.  And mamma laughed, and put her arm about her and said:  ’It is silly and wrong of me, dearest, but I was thinking who might have been doing this for you to-day—­of how proud she would have been!’ Then they came down, and Bess was married.”

“Wasn’t that like her?” said Ann.  They were all silent a moment.  Then the visitor jumped up.

“Well, I must trot home to my deserted parent, my children,” she exclaimed briskly.  “He rages if he comes in and doesn’t find me.  But, if you ask me, I’ll be over later to help you, Rose.  Every one in the world will be here for tea.  And, meantime, make her rest, Ted.  She looks tired to death.”

“I’ll see thee home, Mistress,” said Ted, gallantly, and Rosemary was left alone.  Her brother, coming in again nearly an hour afterward, found her still in the same thoughtful attitude, her big eyes fixed upon space.  He knelt, and put his arm about her, and she drooped her soft, cool little cheek against his, tightening her own arm about his neck.  There was a little silence.

“What is it?” said the boy, presently.

“Nothing, Teddy.  But you’re such a comfort!”

“Well, but it’s something, old lady.  Out with it!”

Rosemary tumbled his hair with her free hand.

“I was thinking of—­mother,” she confessed, very low.

His eyes were fast on hers for another short silence.

“Well,”—­he spoke as if to a small child—­“what were you thinking, dear?”

“Oh, I was just thinking, Ted, that it’s not fair.  It isn’t fair,” said Rosemary, with a little difficulty.  “Not only Dad and Bess and the maids, but you and I, too, we can’t help idolizing mamma.  And sometimes we never think of mother—­our own mother!—­except as tired and sick and struggling—­that’s all I remember, anyway.  And mamma is all strength and sweetness and health.”

“I—­I know it, old lady.”

“Oh, and Ted!—­to-day, and sometimes before, it’s hurt me so!  I can’t feel—­I don’t want to!—­anything but what I do to mamma, but sometimes—­”

She struggled for composure.  Her brother cleared his throat.

“She was so wistful for pretty things and good times, even I can remember that,” said Rosemary, with pitiful recollection.  “And she never had them!  She would have loved to stand there last night, in lace and pearls, bowing and smiling to every one.  She would have loved the applause and the flowers.  And it stings me to think of us, you and I, proud to be mamma’s stepchildren!”