And then the women parted gloomily, to meet again at Joyce's wedding. It was such a day as only the mountains know. A hushed, golden day with a mysterious softness of outline on the distant hills. The little crumbling church was open to the beauty of the morning, and John Gaston had decked it within with every flowering thing he could gather from wood and meadow. Jock came early and stood in one of the narrow doors of the church, opening upon the highway. His hands were plunged in his pockets, and a look of concentration was on his handsome face. He was going to "set," so he thought, his baby parson on to Jude. There was excitement in the idea. While he stood there Gaston came and took his stand at the other narrow door. The architect of the St. Ange church had had ideas of propriety in regard to established rules. "Looks--some! don't it?" Jock asked. "Yes," Gaston replied; "I was bound to have it look as wedding-like as possible." "You did the decorating?" Jock asked, and a curious frown settled between his eyes. "I thought it was the women." "They're thinking of themselves. Is your parson on to the game, Filmer?" "He's all right. Gone off to commune with Nater. There he is now." Drew had entered the rear door, and went at once to the small bare pulpit. "Umph!" whispered Gaston. "Looks like a picture of John the Baptist." "He don't act like it." Jock was in arms at once against any suspected criticism. "He's got more sand than many a blasted heavyweight. You ought to hear his gab--it's the newest thing in soul-saving. Sort o' homeopathic doctrine. Tastes good, but bitter as pisen under the coating. Real stuff inside, and all that. Get's working after it's taken, and the sweet taste lasts in your mouth while your innards are acting like--" The people were gathering. They passed by Jock and Gaston without recognition. Social functions in St. Ange ignored all familiar intimacies. Jude and Joyce came through the rear door, and sat in the front pew. The girl moved with the absorption of a sleepwalker beside Jude whose shufflings bespoke nervous tension. Every now and then he glanced sheepishly at Joyce. Even to his senses, accustomed as they were to the girl's beauty, there was a slight shock of surprise. The little round hat was gracefully wound with frost flowers until it looked like a wreath upon the pale gold of the glorious hair. The face was white and luminous, and the eyes looked as if they were expecting a vision to appear. The white dress, home-made and cheap, had the unfailing touch that innate taste always gives, and it fell in soft lines about the slim, girlish figure. The little work-worn hands were folded loosely. They were resting a moment before taking up the labour of the new, untried life. Drew glanced down as the two came in, and when he saw Joyce he started, and leaned forward.