A great feast was spread that evening, and the wedding guests poured in until the crowd overflowed from the parlor into the great wide hall. Mr. Galer was a genial host, and even while he braced himself for the inevitable scene with Pamela when Sim failed to appear—and he had arranged with the town marshal that the young man should be detained—he moved about among the guests talking in his most agreeable manner. It was a little early, but the minister had already placed himself in position for the ceremony. Mr. Galer laughed jovially. "Plenty of time—plenty of time yet," he exclaimed. "Young folks are never prompt;" but even as he spoke silence fell upon the company, as through the doorway and down the room walked Mr. Josiah Williamson. But who was it leaning upon his arm, her gray silk gown rustling softly, her frightened face alternately flushing and paling like a girl’s, her meek eyes cast down? Mr. Galer fell back, fumbling for his glasses, doubting the evidence of his natural vision. Could it be—could it be—yes, it was Miss Jane. Then he saw Sim Black standing boldly in the doorway with Pamela at his side, and the sight restored his speech and motion and he strode across the floor to them, just as the minister concluded the brief ceremony uniting the elderly couple, and laid his hand on the girl’s shoulder. "I can at least have my say about _this_ part of the wedding." But Sim clasped her hand in his, his black eyes, every feature of his handsome, strong young face betraying his joy and triumph. "You are too late, sir; she is my wife." "We were married in Roswell this morning. Forgive us, grandpa," said Pamela. When he realized that he had been the one cheated, outwitted, his anger knew no bounds. He refused to listen to explanation or excuse, but turned everybody out of the house, gave the wedding supper to the negroes, and shut himself into his own room. But he had been fairly beaten at his own game, and in time he came to appreciate it, and to look with pride on Sim Black’s career, while he and Josiah Williamson ended their years in brotherly love and peace. *HOW THE QUARREL ENDED.* When old Killus Hurd dismounted from his horse before the Hardings’ front gate one spring day, it was not to make a neighborly visit. The flash of his eyes, the set of his mouth, boded no good and mild temper. He was a strong, vigorous-looking man for his years, and larger than the average mountaineer. He walked erect, his brown jeans and homespun clothing fitting loosely, his gray hair falling from under a well-worn broad-brimmed hat to his shoulders.