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I reckon myself as respectable as she is any day, dragging that yellow-faced daughter of hers about with her and throwing her at men's heads." Miss Montressor, who had stopped to pick a flower, rejoined them. "I say, General," she remarked, "fair's fair, and a promise is a promise. We didn't come down here to be made fools of by a fat old Jewess. You won't send us away because of the old wretch?"

The wedding preparations went on, and at last the day came. The wedding was to be at eight o'clock in the evening, and nearly all the village was bidden to it even many of the Unitarian faction who had been Parson Fair's old parishioners. At half-past seven o'clock the street was full of people. The village women rustled through the soft dusk with silken whispers of wide best skirts.

Just before she reached Lot's home, Burr passed her swiftly with a muttered "good-evening." He was on his way to Dorothy Fair's. "Good-evening," Madelon returned, quite clearly. She found Lot sitting up, but she could see that he looked worse than usual. He was paler, and there was an odd, nervous contraction about his whole face, as if a frown of anxiety and perplexity had extended.

"She's Parson Fair's daughter. She is going to marry Burr Gordon she must see him." Alvin Mead shook his head stubbornly. Then Dorothy spoke, thrusting her fair face forward, and looking up at him with terrified, innocent pleading, like a child, and yet speaking with a gentle lady's authority. "I beg you to let me come in, only for a few moments," said she. "I will not make you any trouble.

She wrought a marvellous garland of red roses on Dorothy Fair's green silk, and scarcely left herself time to sleep that she might complete that and her stint of household linen. She had nothing to add to her own wedding-garments. The weeks went past, and the Sunday before the day set for her wedding came again. She had seen Lot but three times in the interval.

Old Luke waited a moment; then raised his shrill, infantile voice again. "If this feller gives ye the slip, ye can jest hang up yer fiddle; ye won't git t'other one back. Parson Fair's gal's got 'nough fine feathers comin' from Boston to fit out the Queen of England, they say." Madelon said nothing. "D'ye hear?" called old Luke; but he got no reply.

Eugene Hautville, rapt in that abstraction of love which is the completest in the world, and makes indeed a world of its own across eternal spaces, knew nothing and thought nothing of outside observers. He was half minded for a minute to enter Parson Fair's house.

Then he turned on her and said, with keen sarcasm that stung more than a whip-lash, "'Tis Parson Fair's daughter and not mine that should come down the road in broad daylight a-bawling for Burr Gordon." Madelon started back, and her face stiffened and whitened. She shut her mouth hard and followed her father into the house.

Not being a native of Friendship, she had difficulty in mastering the intricacies of its relationships. It was ground upon which Miss Betty was entirely at home, however. "They were kin to Cousin Thomas's wife," she explained. "Mrs. Fair's grandmother was half-sister to Cousin Emma's mother, and raised Cousin Emma as her own child. Of course it is not very near when it comes to Celia.

She strove hard to bear herself in such a manner that they should not think that. She put on as gay a face as she could muster, and even took, beside the dress, a little blue-silk mantle to embroider for Dorothy Fair's wedding outfit, and sang over it as she worked.