This new interest for the time being quite drove away the thought of the will. There really was nothing to be done about it for the present, and Agnes turned her attention to Jeanie. “I must go over and see the bride that is to be,” she said the next day. “I promised her my help when the wedding-day should come. It seems, mother, that you have come to a spot where there are a great many exciting things going on, and I have no doubt you thought it would be very dull. I am sorry that all these things call me, but I am always so glad to think you are here for me to come back to.” She found Jeanie going about her preparations in a most orderly manner; nothing in that household ever suggested confusion. Jeanie’s chest, filled with its store of linen, stood ready to be carried to her new home. A pretty young heifer, her father’s gift to her, lowed in the stable yard. Jeanie’s plain stuff gown had been woven and colored with more care than usual, and her neckerchief was snowy white from long bleaching; it was, too, of finer linen than had ever been made in the community, and it was edged with a bit of lace, part of her mother’s little hoard. There would be no veil and orange blossoms for this bride. She might tuck a few spring blossoms in her dark hair, and wear a sprig at her breast, but her ornaments would be few and simple. She showed with great pride her shoes, ornamented with a pair of silver buckles, and took more pleasure in this bit of grandeur than in any other part of her wardrobe. “They are true silver, Nancy, and the shoes we were able to get from Patty Hopkins. She brought them from home with her and her feet had outgrown them before she wore them at all. Was I not lucky to get them? Aren’t they fine?” “They are, indeed,” returned Agnes, viewing the new shoes admiringly. “There are gay times ahead,” she went on, “with a wedding, a housewarming, and all that. When does David come back?” “We expect him Saturday, but he may be detained over Sabbath. There is a deal to do yet, and it is well he is not here to take up my time.” Agnes laughed. “What an unromantic speech; for my part I think I should rather have my lover’s presence than so big a feast.” “Ah, but I shall have his company for the rest of my life, and a wedding-feast is but once prepared; besides, it is not for ourselves, but for our company.” “That is true, too. Well, Jeanie, it is too early yet to cook the feast, but I will be here on Monday and give you all the help I can. I have left my mother so much of late that I must hurry back now.” “Can’t you stay?” said Jeanie, wistfully. “I would like to have one more talk about our girlhood before I am made a wife. There is much I have to tell and much I want to hear.” Agnes hesitated; it seemed unkind to refuse the request, yet her mother must be considered. “I promised I would not stay long,” she said. “I will send one of the children over to say that you will stay,” said Jeanie, eagerly, and to this Agnes consented.