So, despite his perfect content with matters as they were, Mr. Crabtree listened to the siren voice, and finally consented, after twenty years of apparent matrimony, to have the entire thing done over again according to post-bellum methods, and in a style befitting American citizens living in the full blaze of an amended constitution. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree were to be married again; by a preacher, with a license, in a church, with a gold ring. Orleeny was to be maid of honor, and Cato, in all the glory of white cotton gloves and other festal accessories, was to be usher in chief. In his honest soul Mr. Crabtree thought the whole thing unmitigated nonsense; but, like many a man with a lighter skin, concluded that, if nothing else would make his wife happy and give her proper éclat before the members of her S’ciety, he would consent to be a reluctant victim on the altar of matrimonial precedent! “Effen you gwine do the t’ing, you might ez well do it right”—was his conclusion, in which his progressive wife fully coincided. A tidy little sum that had gradually accumulated in the bank was drawn out; and preparations for the belated nuptials went on apace. It was to be not only a church wedding, but a S’ciety wedding likewise, where the various “Orders” with which Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree affiliated were to appear in full regalia and lend spectacular glory to the occasion. [Illustration: A few self-pitying tears fell on the shirt bosom Mrs. Crabtree was ironing. ] “Dere ain’t nothin’ fitten to be bought in dis heah measly little town,” argued Mrs. Crabtree. “We’ll des git on de cyars an’ go ober t’ de county seat an’ lay in de trosso; you’ll hatter go dere for de license anyhow.” By the time they had purchased a “trosso” befitting a sixteen-year-old bride, Mr. Crabtree’s arms were heavy-laden. The bride-to-be, radiant with visions of her coming loveliness, beamed upon him and insisted that an entire suit of black broadcloth for the groom was indispensable. “Why, Pennie, it ’pears lak dat las’ blue suit dat ol’ Mas’ gin me ’ud do berry well. We could shine up de brass buttons an’ freshen it up wid benzine—” protested Mr. Crabtree, with prudent consideration for his fast diminishing exchequer. “Now, honey,” insisted Mrs. Crabtree in her most coquettish manner, “you don’t ’spose I’m gwine ’low a good-lookin’ man lak you t’ ma’ch up de ile in dat ol’ blue suit, an’ me des ez fresh ez de mawnin’ jew in dat white swiss an ’dat long veil! An’ you de Master o’ de Lodge, too? It ’ud be scan’lous!”