Boys and young men in advance, girls and the younger women following, the bridal pair bringing up the rear, the little procession went up Leyden Street and drew up at the door of the exceedingly small house which John Alden had made for his wife. Francis, who had constituted himself master of ceremonies, made the escort divide into two lines and, between them, John and Priscilla walked into their house. And with that the wedding was over. For an instant the young people held their places, staring across the space that separated them, with the blank feeling that always follows after the end of an event long anticipated. Then Constance turned with a sigh, looking about her, wondering if she really were to resume her work-a-day tasks, first of all get dinner. She met her father's intent gaze and his look startled her. He beckoned her, and she stepped back out of the line and joined him. "Giles, Constance; where is he?" demanded Stephen Hopkins. "Father, I don't know! Isn't he here?" she cried. "He is not here, nor is John Billington," said her father. "No one has seen either of them since last night. Is it likely that they would absent themselves willingly from this wedding; Giles, who is so fond of John Alden; John Billington, who is so fond of anything whatever that breaks the monotony of the days?" Constance shook her head. "No, Father," she whispered. "No. And you have no clue to this disappearance, Constance?" her father insisted. "Father, Father, no; no, indeed!" protested Constance. "I did not so much as miss the boys from among us. But what could have befallen them? It can't be that they have come to harm?" "Constance," said her father with a visible effort, "Giles was deeply angry with me yesterday----" "Father, dear Father, you are quite wrong!" Constance interrupted him. "There was no mistaking how delighted Giles was with your making the treaty. Indeed I saw in him all the old-time love and pride in you that we used to make a jest--but how we liked it!--in the dear days across the water, when we were children." Stephen Hopkins let her have her say. Then he shook his head. "It may all be as you say, Constance," he said, sadly. "I also felt in Giles, saw in his face, the affection I have missed of late. But when the Billingtons came making that disturbance I went out--angry, Con; I admit it--and accused Giles of abetting them in what might have caused us serious trouble. And he, in turn, was furiously angry with me. He did not reply to my accusation, but spoke impertinently to me, and went away. I have not seen him since." "Oh, Father, Father!" gasped Constance, her lips trembling, her face pale. "I know, my daughter," said Stephen Hopkins, almost humbly. "But it was an outrageous thing to risk offending our new allies, and inviting the death of us all. And Giles did not deny having a hand in it, remember. But I confess that I should have first asked him whether he had, or not."