The Choir Invisible

"But you haven't congratulated me, Aunt Jessica! You have turned your back

on the bride elect--you with all your fine manners! She presents herself

once more to your notice the future Mrs. Joseph Holden, Junior, to be

married one month from last night!" And unexpectedly standing in front of

Mrs. Falconer, Amy made one of her low bows which she had practised in the

minuet. But catching the sight of the face of her aunt, she cried

remorsefully: "Oh, I have been so rude to you, Aunt Jessica! Forgive me!" There was

something of the new sense of womanhood in her voice and of the sisterhood

in suffering which womanhood alone can bring.

But Mrs. Falconer had not heard Amy's last exclamation.

"What do you mean?" she asked with quick tremulous eagerness. She had

regained her firmness of demeanour, which alone should have turned back any

expression of sympathy before it could have been offered.

"That I am to become Mrs. Joseph Holden--a month from last night," repeated

Amy bewitchingly.

"You are serious?"

"I am serious!"

Mrs. Falconer did not take Amy's word: she searched her face and eyes with

one swift scrutiny that was like a merciless white flame of truth, scorching

away all sham, all play, all unreality. Then she dropped her head quickly,

so that her own face remained hidden, and silently plied her work. But how

the very earth about the rake, how the little roots and clods, seemed to

come to life and leap joyously into the air! All at once she dropped

everything and came over and took Amy's hand and kissed her cheek. Her

lovely eyes were glowing; her face looked as though it had upon it the rosy

shadow of the peach trees not far away.

"I do congratulate you," she said sweetly, but with the reserve which Amy's

accession to womanhood and the entire conversation of the morning made an

unalterable barrier to her. "You have not needed advice: you have chosen

wisely. You shall have a beautiful wedding. I will make your dress myself.

The like of it will never have been seen in the wilderness. You shall have

all the finest linen in the weaving-room. Only a month! How shall we ever

get ready!--if we stand idling here! Oh, the work, the work!" she cried and

turned to hers with a dismissing smile--unable to trust herself to say more.

"And I must go and take the things out of my bundle," cried Amy, catching

the contagion of all this and bounding away to the house. Some five minutes

later Mrs. Falconer glanced at the sun: it was eleven o'clock--time to be

getting dinner.