The Heart's Kingdom

"Yes, God bless us all!" he exclaimed, as he held out his hands to all

of us, one of which Nickols took, with a swift challenging glance that

in the radiance softened to confidence, and the other father took and

fairly clung to in his happiness. I was glad, glad that I didn't have to

endure the touch of his hand on mine after that glance, but not for one

instant did my heart accuse his radiance of being dramatics. I rather

felt that it came from a warmth within him by which everybody else in

the world might be comforted but for which I would forever be cold.

"I want to be worth her, old man," Nickols said to him with a

curiously pleading note in his voice, and he, too, seemed to me to be

clinging to some of the strength that was not for me.

"Then God help you," was the answer given with the very essence of

gentleness, but with a level glance into Nickols' eyes that was

profoundly sad.

"And now let's hear the wedding plans," demanded Harriet. "This marrying

and giving in marriage is the best way I know of to make time pass, and

let's make Charlotte give us full measure. I'm matron of honor, of

course, and I suggest only twelve bridesmaids. I intend to be preceded

to the altar by Sue in an embroidered silk muslin I will provide, with a

bonnet of tulle in which nestles a pink rose to match the ones in her

basket. There will also be a display of pink knees that will be

ravishing and--"

"Just let me remind you, Harriet, that this is Charlotte's wedding and

not that of my daughter, Susan, and her often-mentioned knees," said

Mark with a laugh that they all echoed.

"I am going to marry Susan's pink knees when they are ripe," remarked

Billy and his suppression lasted long enough for me to attain command

enough of myself to manage the plans of my own wedding.

Later when they had all gone by way of the chapel to help Mr. Goodloe

decide on some designs for a memorial window to his father he was having

made by a great artist he and Nickols had selected, I went in to make my

announcement to Mammy and Dabney.

"Well, ram in the cork to the demijohn, honey, and it'll be all right,"

was Dabney's semi-cordial consent, but Mammy went on industriously

beating her biscuits for supper the one hundred and twenty licks

prescribed by her reputation as a cook and her conscientious guarding of

that same reputation.

"What do you say, Mammy?" I insisted on her giving her opinion.

"Of course, if you want to eat plain biscuits instead of the showbread

from before the mercy seat--one hundred and two, one hundred and

three--" was the answer given between the licks upon the white dough,

and I fled before I should get a clearer manifestation of the

disappointment I felt raging in her faithful old heart.