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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.

“Mushrooms!” echoed Mrs. Larabee, gravely, shaking her head. And a score of other women looking over her shoulder at the child, who lay breathing heavily with his eyes shut, shook their heads, too.

“You’d better take him right home with me, dearie,” Mrs. Larabee said gently, with a significant glance at the watching circle. “We oughtn’t to lose any time.”

Dr. Lowell stepped out beside her and gently took Danny in his arms.

“I hope you’ll let me carry him over there for you, Mrs. Waters,” said he. “There’s no question that he’s pretty sick. We’ve got a hard fight ahead.”

There was a little sensation in the room, but Shandon only looked at him uncomprehendingly. In her eyes there was the dumb thankfulness of the dog who knows himself safe with friends. She wet her lips and tried to speak. But before she could do so, the doctor’s mother touched his arm half timidly and said:

“Arnold, you can’t very well–surely, it’s hardly fair to Mary–“

“Mary–?” he answered her quickly. He raised his eyes to where his wife-to-be, in a startled group of white-clad attendants, was standing halfway down the stairway.

She looked straight at Shandon, and perhaps at no moment in their lives did the two women show a more marked contrast; Shandon muddy, exhausted, haggard, her sombre eyes sick with dread, Mary’s always fragile beauty more ethereal than ever under the veil her mother had just caught back with orange blossoms. Shandon involuntarily flung out her hand toward her in desperate appeal.