More than a year had passed since that winter evening in the schoolhouse lane, but Margeret and Roger had waited patiently until all could be set in order for their marriage. With his quick shrewdness, Roger had seized upon a fact that was, later, clear enough to every one, namely, as he told Master Simon, “that New England’s prosperity would come more from her ship-captains than her farmers.” So he had sailed away upon a trading venture in a ship of which he hoped some day to be the owner, while Margeret had sat by the fireside at home, spinning flax, weaving linen, and stitching away at the household gear that must belong to every properly dowered bride. Master Simon, sitting in his great chair opposite, would beguile her with stories of the foreign lands to which Roger had gone, tales brought back by his own father from voyages made nearly a hundred years ago. Then at last the ship had come to port again, the final stitch had been taken and the marriage day was at hand. The time of the wedding was late June and the place, as all agreed to be most fitting, was Master Simon’s garden. For weeks Margeret’s father had been directing two busy helpers there, since his own stiff joints were not equal to their old tasks. With patience and skill that were almost uncanny he had brought the garden to its fairest flowering. Early blossoms he had coaxed into lingering, late ones to hasten their bloom, so that, as the day approached, the whole place was a miracle of abundant pink and white, banks of roses against cool dark hedges, smooth lawns fringed with fragrant pinks, sweetbrier, tall trim hollyhocks, masses of white syringa and early-flowering sweet-william. “There is one thing that troubles me,” said Master Simon to his daughter and to the lad he already loved as well as a son, “one plant that mars the pink and white harmony of the garden. There is a clump of sweet-william that should have bloomed white, but instead, has opened its flowers a brilliant crimson. So eagerly has it answered my call to grow abundantly for your wedding day that I scarcely can bring myself to root it up, poor faithful thing. I fear that I am too soft-hearted to be a proper gardener!” He leaned forward in his chair that had been set near the cottage door, and tried to point out the flower that had played him false. It could not be seen, however, from where he sat, so Margeret and Roger went down into the garden to look for themselves. Neither of them could summon courage to pull up the too-willing plant, so it was left to bloom unabashed, among the softer colours of the other flowers. The next day, just at sundown, the marriage was to take place, in the little square Queen’s Garden where the last level rays always fell in a farewell radiance. Later, the wedding supper would be spread indoors, and for this great preparations had been made, the larder filled with good things, and rows of bayberry candles set ready to light the scene.