retreated before them, scattering our flowers lavishly on the
path, and Alice Dale walked to the very doorstep of her new home
over a carpet of blossoms. On the step they both paused and
turned towards us, and we shyly did the proper thing in the way of
congratulations and good wishes.

"It was so sweet of you to do this," said the smiling bride.

"It was lovely to be able to do it for you, dearest," whispered
the Story Girl, "and oh, Miss Reade--Mrs. Dale, I mean--we all
hope you'll be so, so happy for ever."

"I am sure I shall," said Alice Dale, turning to her husband. He
looked down into her eyes--and we were quite forgotten by both of
them. We saw it, and slipped away, while Jasper Dale drew his
wife into their home and shut the world out.

We scampered joyously away through the moonlit dusk. Uncle Blair
joined us at the gate and the Story Girl asked him what he thought
of the bride.

"When she dies white violets will grow out of her dust," he
answered.

"Uncle Blair says even queerer things than the Story Girl,"
Felicity whispered to me.

And so that beautiful day went away from us, slipping through our
fingers as we tried to hold it. It hooded itself in shadows and
fared forth on the road that is lighted by the white stars of