Here the wedding breakfast was spread, the bride’s table being placed outside that same arbor where Jack once tried so hard to tell Ruth he loved her (how often have they laughed over it since); a table with covers for seven, counting the two bridesmaids and the two gallants in puffy steel-gray scarfs and smooth steel-gray gloves.  The other guests—­the relations and intimate friends who had been invited to remain after the ceremony—­were to find seats either at the big or little tables placed under the palms or beneath the trellises of jasmine, or upon the old porch overlooking the tropical garden.

It was Jack’s voice that finally caught my attention.  I could not see clearly on account of the leaves and tangled vines, but I could hear.

“But we want you, and you must.”

“Oh, please, do,” pleaded Ruth; there was no mistaking the music of her tones, or the southern accent that softened them.

“But what nonsense—­an old duffer like me!” This was Peter’s voice—­no question about it.

“We won’t any of us sit down if you don’t,” Jack was speaking now.

“And it will spoil everything,” cried Ruth.  “Jack and I planned it long ago; and we have brought you out a special chair; and see your card—­see what it says:  ‘Dear Uncle Peter—­’”

“Sit down with you young people at your wedding breakfast!” cried Peter, “and—­” He didn’t get any farther.  Ruth had stopped what was to follow with a kiss.  I know, for I craned my neck and caught the flash of the old fellow’s bald head with the fair girl’s cheek close to his own.

“Well, then—­just as you want it—­but there’s the Major and Felicia and your father.”

But they did not want any of these people, Ruth cried with a ringing laugh; didn’t want any old people; they just wanted their dear Uncle Peter, and they were going to have him; a resolution which was put to vote and carried unanimously, the two pink bridesmaids and the two steel-gray gentlemen voting the loudest.

The merriment ceased when Ruth disappeared and came back in a dark-blue travelling dress and Jack in a brown suit.  We were all in the doorway, our hands filled with rose petals—­no worn-out slippers or hail of rice for this bride—­when she tried to slip through in a dash for the carriage, but the dear lady caught and held her, clasping the girl to her heart, kissing her lips, her forehead, her hands—­she could be very tender when she loved anybody; and she loved Ruth as her life; Peter and her father going ahead to hold open the door where they had their kisses and handshakes, their blessings, and their last words all to themselves.

The honeymoon slipped away as do all honeymoons, and one crisp, cool December day a lumbering country stage containing two passengers struggled up a steep hill and stopped before a long, rambling building nearing completion.  All about were piles of partly used lumber, broken bundles of shingles, empty barrels, and abandoned mortar beds.  Straight from the low slanting roof with its queer gables, rose a curl of blue smoke, telling of comfort and cheer within.  Back of it towered huge trees, and away off in the distance swept a broad valley hazy in the morning light.