Family Pride

And so in Mrs. Cameron's drawing-room there was a quiet wedding one pleasant April morning, and Bell's plain traveling dress was far more in keeping with the gloom which hung over the great city than her gala robes would have been, with a long array of carriages and merry wedding chimes. Westward they went, instead of South, and when our late lamented President was borne back to the prairie of Illinois, they were there to greet the noble dead, and mingle their tears with those who knew and loved him long before the world appreciated his worth.

* * * * * Softly the May rain falls on Linwood, where the fresh green grass is springing and the early spring flowers blooming, and where Katy, fairest flower of all, stands for a moment in the deep bay window of the library, listening dreamily to the patter on the tin roof overhead, and gazing wistfully down the road, as if watching for some one, then turning, she enters the dining-room and inspects the supper table, shining with silver, and laid for six, for her mother, Aunt Hannah and Aunt Betsy are visiting her this rainy afternoon, while Morris, on his return from North Silverton, where he has gone to see a patient, is to call for Uncle Ephraim, who, in clean linen, checked gingham neck handkerchief and the swallow-tailed coat which has served him for so many years, sits waiting at home, with one kitten in his lap and another on his shoulder.

Linwood is a nice place to visit, and the old ladies enjoy it vastly, especially Aunt Betsy, who never tires of telling what they have "over to Katy's," and whose capeless shaker hangs often on the hall stand, just as it hangs now, while she, good soul, sits in the pleasant parlor, near the blazing fire, and darns the socks for Morris, taking as much pains as if it were a network of fine lace she was weaving, instead of a shocking rent in some luckless heel or toe. Upstairs there is a pleasant room which Katy calls Aunt Betsy's, and in it is the feather bed on which Wilford Cameron once slept, a part of Katy's "setting out," which never found its way to Madison Square. Morris himself did not think much of feathers, but he made no objection when Aunt Betsy insisted on sending over the bed kept for so many years, and only smiled a droll kind of smile when he one morning met it coming up the walk in the wheelbarrow which Uncle Ephraim trundled.

Morris and his young wife were very happy together, and Katy found the hours of his absence very long, especially when she was left alone. Even to-day, with her aunts and mother, the time drags heavily, and she looks more than once from the bay window, until at last Brownie's head is seen over the hill, and a few moments after Morris' arm is around her shoulders, and her lips are upturned for the kiss he gives as he leads her into the house out of the chill, damp air, chiding her gently for exposing herself to the rain, and placing in her hand three letters, which she does not open until the cozy tea is over and her family friends have gone. Then, while her husband looks over his evening paper, she breaks the seals, one by one, reading first the letter from "Mrs. Bob Reynolds," who has returned from the West, and who is in the full glory of her bridal calls.