Almost simultaneously came the hurry of ladies’ feet down the staircase, and the swish of silken skirts. Betty and Cordelia and Madeleine rushed through the hall and climbed into the carryall, with soft excitement and gentle laughter. This wedding journey was a great event, and they had talked of nothing else for weeks. "Come, Charles. Come, Father, aren’t you ready?" called Betty. "It is high time we started. Mother is all dressed, and Aunt Martha is just tying her bonnet. Charles, Mother wants you to ride in the carriage with her this morning; but you are to change off with us by-and-by, so we’ll all have a good look at you." The father caught his breath and looked helplessly at his son. "I did not realize it was getting so late," he murmured. "Of course the journey must be stopped." "Of course, Father," agreed Charles decidedly. "Go quickly and tell Mother all about it. I will tell the girls and Aunt Martha," he added. With a look as though he were going to his death, the older man hurried up the stairs to his wife, and Charles went out to the piazza. The two servants stood grinning happily, feeling the overflow of the festive occasion. Charles could not reveal his secret there. "Come into the house, a minute, girls. I’ve something to tell you." "Indeed, no, Charles!" said Cordelia emphatically. "I will not climb out over the wheels again. I nearly ruined my pelisse getting in. It is very dusty. And I have covered myself all nicely for the journey. Won’t it keep?" "Cordelia, you must come," said the young man imperiously, and stalked into the house, uncertain whether they would follow him. In a moment Betty appeared roguishly in the parlor door, whither Charles had gone. "They won’t come, Charles," she said. "It’s no use. If you had news of an earthquake or a new railroad, they wouldn’t stir. Nothing weighs against one’s wedding garments, and Cordelia has taken special pains." But Charles did not respond to Betty’s nonsense in his usual merry way. "Betty, listen," he said gravely. "An awful thing has happened." "Is Harrington dead?" asked Betty, with wide, frightened eyes and blanched face. "No, but he might better be, Betty. He has a wife and two little children out West, and he has deserted them to marry again." Betty did not scream nor exclaim, "How dreadful!" Instead, she sat down quickly in the first chair at hand. After an instant’s silence, she said in her matter-of-fact way: "Then there won’t be any wedding, of course! And what will that poor girl do? Has anybody thought about her? Somehow, I’m not surprised. I’ve always secretly thought Harrington was selfish. It’s like him never to think how he would make other people suffer. His letters always put Father and Mother in hot water. Have they told her yet, Charles? Oh, I wish I could go and help comfort her! I can’t think of anything more mortifying for her."