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First to emerge was a group of the younger knights, frock-coated, silk-hatted, pale gray of waistcoat and gloves, white and effulgent of boutonniere. Excitement, almost riot, resulted among the much-caparisoned horses, the much-favored coachmen, and the much-beribboned equipages of state. But the noise increased to clamor and eagerness to violence when an ethereal figure in floating tulle and clinging lace was led out into the afternoon light by a more resplendent edition of black-coated, gray-trousered knighthood.

The next wave was all of pink chiffon and nodding plumes. The first wave, after trickling about the carriages and the coachmen, receded up the steps again to be lost and mingled in the third, and then both swept down to the carriages again and were absorbed. Then the steady tide of departing royalty set in. Then horses plunged, elderly knights fussed, court ladies commented upon the heat, the bride, the presents, or their neighbors. Then the bride’s father mopped his brow and the bridegroom’s mother wept a little. Then there was much shaking or waving of hands or of handkerchiefs. Then the bridal carriage began to move, the bride began to smile, and rice and flowers and confetti and good wishes and slippers filled the air. Then other carriages followed, then the good folk of Camelot followed, an aged man closed the wide church doors, and the square was left to the sparrows, pink sunshine, confetti, rice, and Mary.

The little pilgrim’s sunbonnet was hanging down her back, her hair was loose upon her shoulders, “an’ real goldy” where it caught the sun, and her eyes were wide and deep with happiness and faith. She crossed the wide plaisance and stood upon the steps, she gathered up three white roses and a shred of lace, she sat down to rest upon the topmost step, she laid her cheek against the inhospitable doors, and, in the language of the stories she loved so well, “so fell she on sleep” with the tired flowers in her tired hands.

And there Herbert Buckley found her. He had traveled far afield on that autumn afternoon; but it is not every day that the daughter of the owner of one-half the mills in a manufacturing town is married to the owner of the other half, and when such things do occur to the accompaniment of illustrious visitors, a half-holiday in all the mills, perfect weather, and unlimited hospitality, it behooves the progressive journalist and reporter for miles around to sing “haste to the wedding,” and to draw largely upon his adjectives and his fountain pen. The editorial staff of the Arcady Herald-Journal turned homeward, and was evolving phrases in which to describe that gala day when his eye caught the color of a familiar little sunbonnet, the outline of a familiar little figure. But such a drooping little sunbonnet! Such a relaxed little figure! Such a weary little face! And such a wildly impossible place in which to find a little daughter. Then he remembered having seen Miss Ann and Miss Agnes among the spectators and his wonder changed to indignation.

It was nearly dark when Mary opened her eyes again and found herself sheltered in her father’s arm and rocked by the old familiar motion of the buggy.

“And then,” she prompted sleepily as her old habit was, “what did they do then?”

“They were married,” his quiet voice replied.

“And then?”

“Oh, then they went away together and lived happily ever after.”

For some space there was silence and a star came out. Mary watched it drowsily and then drowsily began:

“When I was to Camelot–“

“Where?” demanded her father.

“When I was to Camelot,” she repeated, cuddling close to him as if to show that there were dearer places than that gorgeous city, “I saw a knight and a lady getting married. And lots of other knights were there–they didn’t wear their fighting clothes–and lots of other ladies, pink ones. An’ Arthur wore a stovepipe hat an’ Guinevere wore a white dress, an’ she had white feathers in her crown. An’ Lancelot, he was there, all getting married. Daddy, dear,” she broke off to question, “were you ever to Camelot?”

“Oh, yes, I was there,” he answered, “but it was a great many years ago.”

“Did you find roses?” she asked, exhibiting her wilted treasures.

“I found your mother there, my dear.”

“And then, what did you do then?”

“Well, then we were married and lived happily ever after.”

“And then–?”

“There was you, and we lived happier ever after.”

And Mary fell on sleep again in the shelter of her father’s arm while the stars came out and the glow of joyant Camelot lit all the southern sky.