"I—I—had we not better wait until next week, Josiah?" questioned Mrs. Stanhope timidly. She was a pale, delicate woman of forty, of a shrinking nature, easily led by others.
"No, my dear, there is no use in waiting."
"But Dora"
"You must not mind what your daughter says, my dear. When we are married she will easily become reconciled to the change, mark my words."
"Gracious, old Crabtree is going to marry her!" whispered Sam. "Poor Dora!"
"She wants me to wait," continued the lady.
"And you ought to wait, mother," came in Dora's voice; and now she too came into sight, but without a hat or wraps.
"Mr. Crabtree wishes very much to have the ceremony performed this afternoon, Dora dear."
"If he wants to marry you, why can't he do it openly—at home or in our church?"
"He is averse to any display."
"It seems to me it is a very sneaking way to do," answered Dora coldly. "When you and papa were married the wedding was well attended, so I have been told."
"Your father and myself are different persons, Miss Dora," interrupted Josiah Crabtree stiffly. "I prefer a quiet wedding, and no time is better than the present. I shall at once re-
