The two swept past me into the old-fashioned parlor, now a bower of roses, where Jack and Peter and Felicia, with the elect, waited their coming, and I followed, halting at the doorway.  From this point of vantage I peered in as best I could over and between the heads of the more fortunate, but I heard all that went on; the precise, sonorous voice of the bishop—­(catch Miss Felicia having anybody but a bishop); the clear responses—­especially Jack’s—­as if he had been waiting all his life to say those very words and insisted on being heard; the soft crush of satin as Ruth knelt; the rustle of her gown when she regained her feet; the measured words:  “Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder”—­ and then the outbreak of joyous congratulations.  As I looked in upon them all—­old fellow as I am—­listening to their joyous laughter; noting the wonderful toilettes, the festoons and masses of flowers; watching Miss Felicia as she moved about the room (and never had I seen her more the “Grande Dame” than she was that day), welcoming her guests with a graciousness that must have opened some of their eyes—­even fat, red-faced Arthur Breen, perspiring in pearl-colored gloves and a morning frock coat that fitted all sides of him except the front, and Mrs. Arthur in moire antique and diamonds, were enchanted; noting, too, Peter’s perfectly appointed dress and courtly manners, he taking the whole responsibility of the occasion on his own shoulders—­head of the house, really, for the time; receiving people at the door; bowing them out again; carrying glasses of punch—­stopping to hobnob with this or that old neighbor:  “Ah, my dear Mrs. Townehalle, how young and well you look; and you tell me this is your daughter.  I knew your mother, my dear, when she was your age, and she was the very prettiest girl in the county.  And now let me present you to a most charming woman, Mrs. Foster, of New York, who—­” etc., etc.  Or greeting some old gray-head with:  “Well, well—­of coarse it is —­why, Judge, I haven’t seen you since you left the bench which you graced so admirably,” etc, etc.; watching, too, Ruth and Jack as they stood beneath a bower of arching roses—­(Miss Felicia had put it together with her own hands)—­receiving the congratulations and good wishes of those they knew and those they did not know; both trying to remember the names of strangers; both laughing over their mistakes, and both famished for just one kiss behind some door or curtain where nobody could see.  As I looked on, I say, noting all these and a dozen other things, it was good to feel that there was yet another spot in this world of care where unbridled happiness held full sway and joy and gladness were contagious.

But it was in the tropical garden, with its frog pond, climbing roses in full bloom, water-lilies, honeysuckle, and other warm-weather shrubs and plants (not a single thing was a-bloom outside, even the chrysanthemums had been frost-bitten), that the greatest fun took place.  That was a sight worth ten nights on the train to see.