"W' thar! I thought you'd a got one by now! Mine come last night, an' Mealy had one yistiddy. Wh' Sate's gone and sent eout printed tickets to most everyone on the Neck t' come t' her weddin'."

"Tickets!" repeated Mrs. Homan. "Tickets! What on earth d' you mean, Weed Morse?"

"Jes' whut I say. Printed tickets. Th' say she went an' had 'em done to th' Record office."

"Dew tell!" cried Mrs. Homan. "What's on 'em? Be they to buy?"

"W'l, no, I don't think th' be," answered the news-bearer, somewhat doubtfully, "but thar's a lot o' s'ciety language an' sumthin' 'baout requestin' your honors an' your presents-I don't recollec' the exac' words. Gilly B's wife says't means, come along an' bring your gifts."

ended, pursing up her lips formally at the mention of this worldling. Mrs. Homan sniffed.

"He may 'a' come from York,” answered Mrs. Homan, sharply, "an' I've heard tell 't he clerked in a shoe store oncet, but I notice sence he's been here he's took to follerin' the bay, same's our own boys,-an' I'll bet he don't make no more'n some of 'em, neither. I've said right along 't' Sate better took up with some of her own folks 't she knowed sumthin' 'baout, stid of a furriner like thet Smith."

"Yes, yes," replied Mrs. Morse, "thet's so. W' I mus' go, I'm thinkin' of walkin's fur's Aunt Norchy Ann's an' see what she's goin' to dew. I s'pose your ticket'll come soon. Wh' thar comes Sammy Verity neow. I bet he's got your

ticket! He fetched mine."

"I dunno. I was, 'fore I got a ticket, but I guess I'll wait an' see what the rest does."

"What's got inter Sate Verity, I sh'd like to know?" demanded Mrs. Homan. "Puttin' on sech airs! I guess she's forgot t' her paw wuz an oyster watcher till he died, and her maw has a hard enough time to scratch along, stringin' clams an' all! I never heard tell o' sech works."

"Ain't it aw-ful?" remarked Mrs. Morse, expressing her entire sympathy with her friend's views in this convenient "Neck" phrase. "I think it's that Smith she's marryin'. He comes from York, y' know, an' Phoeb' M'ri Johnson sez his sister 's visitin' Sate an' she's put her up to these fool notions. I s'pose she's up on all the new s'ciety ways," she

evident reluctance. His tow head was, as usual, innocent of hat or cap, his face was dirty, his feet were bare, and yet he was clearly not happy. He scowled quite diffidently as he reached the kitchen door.

"Here's sumthin' fur ye," he mumbled, in a shame-faced undertone, thrusting a somewhat soiled envelope at Mrs. Homan. "Anan' maw says will you please lend her yer ways-o'-the-world bed quilt to throw over the sofy, at the weddin'."

"Wh' yes, she kin hev it," answered Mrs. Homan, with some hesitation. If she felt a little reluctant to let her most precious possession out of her care for a day, she was somewhat compensated by the thought that it was to assist at s'ciety doin's-even if they were

shaller. Such is the complex nature of woman!

"Where ye goin' neow, Sammy?" inquired Mrs. Morse. "Hev yer got any more tickets to give out?" The boy nodded sulkily.

"Got 't leave one to Seamanses, an' then I'm goin' t' Aunt Norchy Ann's" he muttered, digging his bare toes in the dirt, "to borry her big kettle fer corn beef-the hull heouse is upsot with this darn weddin'! I'm tired of it fer one. I ain't done nuthin' but run arrants fer a week," he burst forth, unable to repress himself longer.

"Why Sammy! You didn't ought to talk so!" reproved Mrs. Morse. "You come along o' me. I'm goin' to Aunt Norchy Ann's, tew. Goodbye, Del," and Mrs. Morse departed down the lane, leading the doubly reluctant Sammy by the hand.

The day had arrived. For a week the Verity cottage had been in a state of upheaval, but at last everything was ready for the great event. The roms were cleaned, the corned beef boiled, cakes made, pies baked, and all preparations finished. The bride, dressed for the ceremony, stood stiffly in the middle of the attic room which had been reserved for the family. The crisp newness of her white lawn dress forbade any easier position, while her veil, a long and elaborate affair strangely suggestive of a Nottingham curtain -loaned and arranged by the fashionable sister of the groom-was dragging unpleasantly at her hair.

Down stairs, part of the company was already assembled, the York folks, who had arrived en masse by the 2.30 train. They sat about the best room talking constrainedly. in whispers, with long expectant

pauses. Mrs. Verity, her usually placid face wearing a worried and harassed expression, stood at the door anxiously awaiting the other guests. The minister, a gaunt, oldlooking young man, wandered aimlessly about the room, occasionally making a melancholy and futile attempt to start a general conversation.

"Sammy! Sammy!" came in a shrill tone from the attic.

"Sammy," called Mrs. Verity from the doorway, "she's a-callin'!"

With a sound between a growl and a groan Sammy emerged from a dilapidated out-building, and vanished upstairs. He had been coaxed and bullied into Sunday clothes, shoes and stockings and a rasping, throttling celluloid collar. He looked very wretched.

"Well, what d' ye want, now?" he demanded, appearing at the door of the attic chamber. "Ain't ye pestered me 'nough fer one day?" "Anybody come yet?" inquired Sate, anxiously.

"Nope."

"Whar's William Henry?"
"In the barn."

Sate gasped. "Great lands! What on earth's he doin' there? He'd oughter be entertainin' folks," she cried, nearly reduced to tears by this new trial.

"He's fixin' up the minister's hoss," explained Sammy, somewhat softened at the sight of his sister's distress. "I was helpin' him but maw called me."

"Well, you run tell him to come in, right off; thar's a good boy," implored Sate. "Tell him he must talk to his folks. An' look up the road an' see 'f anyone's comin'."

Sammy's uncompromising shoes slumped down the stairs.. With

dogged, if despairing patience Sate waited for what seemed to her another hour or two. Then she heard lighter footsteps mounting and Henrietta Smith, William Henry's fashionable sister, entered the room. She wore a silk dress of a vivid pink shade, and carried a bunch of yellow roses. She was to be bridesmaid.

"Sate," she said coaxingly, "don't you think we'd better begin? The folks are getting uneasy, and the minister's waitin."

Sate shook her head emphatically. "You go deown an' entertain 'em awhile longer," she answered, "I ain't comin' yet."

Mrs.

Henrietta Smith glanced at Sate's inflexible face, and left her. Verity passed her on the stairs.

"Daughter," she began, putting her head in the door, "don't yew think yew'd better git married. neow? All the folks is here an'-"

"Yes!" cried the exasperated bride half hysterically, "all his folks, but where's mine?"

She was interrupted by the appearance of the groom himself. "Come, Sate," he said, impatiently. "The minister's waitin' and all the folks-"

He got no further. rupted him angrily.

Sate inter

I

"Folks!" she cried, "yes, your folks! None o' mine's come yet, they tell me, not even Aunt Norchy Ann! I ain't goin' to be married without 'em, so there! know why, too,-it's sumthin' to dew with them invites I sent. I wisht -I wisht-oh dear!" she wailed, suddenly bursting into tears, "I wisht I'd never married you! Ef 't hadn't been for Henrietta's high falutin' notions, I wouldn't 'a' sent no invites."

William Henry looked distressed.

"Why, Sate, I thought you liked the idea of invites," he began in a conciliatory tone, but again his bride broke in.

"W', I s'pose I did-at fust. Henrietta said 'twas the thing to dew. But you needn't come up here and pester me, William Henry. I won't get married 'thout a single one o' my own folks here, not if I die fust!"

William gazed helplessly at her tearful face. Mrs. Verity, now fully convinced of the gravity of the situation, took matters into her own hands.

"Let her be, William," she advised, mildly, and turning, left the room. Arrayed as she was in her best dress, she hastily snatched up a sun-bonnet and hurried from the house.

Aunt Norchy Ann was her nearest neighbor, a short distance down. street, and straight to Aunt Norchy Ann's she went. Bursting into the kitchen without the formality of knocking, she started back in amazement. For there, most of them arrayed as for some special occasion, sat the wedding guests who should have been assembled in her own best room at that moment!

"What be yew awaitin' fur?" she gasped, when she got her breath. "Why, Sate's waitin' fur yew!"

Aunt Norchy Ann, large and stout and motherly, with a placid goodnatured face, stepped forward and placed a chair for Mrs. Verity. She did not offer to explain the situation for a moment, but glanced around. at the others. As they made no effort to speak, she sighed gently and pursed up her lips, chewing deprecatorily on the clove she habitually kept in her mouth.

"Wa-al," she began at length, in

her slow soft drawl, so different from the quick, short speech of the other "Neckers," "we didn't jest understand them tickets."

"Thar," ejaculated Mrs. Verity, "I said as much. I told Sate 'twas them invites."

"They read, 'Yewr honor an' yewr presents is requested' or sumthin." continued Aunt Norchy Ann, determined now to do her whole duty, her mild tones quite apologetic, "an' we didn't know as we'd oughter come withaout presents. Leastways, most on us hed been goin' to give Sate sumthin'" she explained, glancing at the others, who corroborated her statement with solemn nods. "But we didn't know's they could be rightly called presents-good enough, that is, fer a ticket weddin'! I was goin' to send her a bar' of frewit," she added, rather hesitatingly, "I've had a good frewit season, and I thought mebby Sate could use some pears an' apples an' all, but it didn't seem jest to go with the tickets."

"An' I had had two pictur's-they come with soap couponds, I've been savin' this great while, but they wuz real pretty," said another woman, gaining a little courage at last, "but-"

"I was goin' t' bring Sate a fryin' pan—it's a brand new one I got o' the peddler last week fer two old caliker dresses," interrupted Mrs. Homan. "But when I see how fashionable Sate sot out to be, thinks I, fryin' pans is rather too—”

"Well," broke in Phoeb' M'ri Johnson, "fust I had a red table cloth, but when I got my ticket, I took it right back to Wilson's an' changed it for this here." She proudly displayed an elaborately colored china figure.

Mrs. Verity looked about her in distress.

"W" now!" she cried, the tears. starting to her eyes, "I can't say how sorry I be! wrong notion. Sate didn't mean nothin' by them invites. I dunno's I wonder at your gittin' mixed. 'Twas dreadful confusin' all thet talk onto the invites. I couldn't git no clear idee what it meant, but Henrietta Smith said 'twas jest right. But we never thought o' your thinkin' of it thet way. There where it says 'presents' it don't mean gifts. Wh' we never thought of sech a thing! I sh'd be too mortified to hev you think we was askin' for presents!" Poor Mrs. Verity was almost overwhelmed with her distress. "I declare, I don't know what to say!"

You've all took the

"Now it's all right," cried Aunt Norchy Ann, comfortingly, "I'm amazed to think we got it so wrong. Don't you cry, Em, now don't."

"I told Sate not to do it," went on Mrs. Verity, somewhat more composed, "I sez, 'twon't do, I sez, to mix up York notions into Neck doin's. But-w'l, I mustn't stand here talkin'." She dried her mild blue eyes on her bonnet strings. "Sate's waitin'. She won't git married till you all come. So git your bonnits, and come with me, do, I beg."

The party in Aunt Norchy Ann's kitchen rose readily, hurriedly got their wraps, gathered up their presents, which they had been exhibiting and discussing, and followed Mrs. Verity down the road.

Sate, looking out of the attic window, saw them coming, a solemn and decorous procession, each guest bearing a more or less unwrapped. present. With a joyful cry she