"'Cause he's got engaged to her. He's going to give her a real handsome turquoise ring, fourteen-carat gold." "Didn't Mittie send me no word?" faltered Joe. "No," said Mrs. Beaver unhesitatingly, though she had in her pocket a note for him from the unhappy Mittie. Joe fumbled for his hat. "I guess I better be goin'," he said, a lump rising ominously in his throat. He got the gate open and made his way half dazed around the corner. As he did so, he saw a procession of small Ridders bearing joyously down upon him. "Joe!" shrieked Lottie, arriving first, "Maw says hurry on home; we got another new baby to our house." During the weeks that followed, Rear Ninth Street was greatly thrilled over the unusual event of a home wedding. The reticence of the groom was more than made up for by the bulletins of news issued daily by Mrs. Beaver. To use that worthy lady's own words, "she was in her elements!" She organised various committees--on decoration, on refreshment, and even on the bride's trousseau, tactfully permitting each assistant to contribute in some way to the general grandeur of the occasion. "I am going to have this a real showy wedding," she said from her point of vantage by the parlour window, where she sat like a field-marshal and issued her orders. "Those paper fringes want to go clean across every one of the shelves, and you all must make enough paper roses to pin 'round the edges of all the curtains. Ever'thing's got to look gay and festive." "Mittie don't look very gay," ventured one of the assistants. "I seen her in the kitchen cryin' a minute ago." "Mittie's a fool!" announced Mrs. Beaver calmly. "She don't know a good thing when she sees it! Get them draperies up a little higher in the middle; I'm going to hang a silver horseshoe on to the loop." The wedding night arrived, and the Beaver cottage was filled to suffocation with the _elite_ of Rear Ninth Street. The guests found it difficult to circulate freely in the room on account of the elaborate and aggressive decorations, so they stood in silent rows awaiting the approaching ceremony. As the appointed hour drew near, and none of the groom's family arrived, a few whispered comments were exchanged. "It's 'most time to begin," whispered the preacher to Mrs. Beaver, whose keen black eyes had been watching the door with growing impatience. "Well, we won't wait on nobody," she said positively, as she rose and left the room to give the signal. In the kitchen she found great consternation: the bride, pale and dejected in all her finery, sat on the table, all the chairs being in the parlour. "What's the matter?" demanded Mrs. Beaver. "He ain't come!" announced one of the women in tragic tones. "Ben Schenk ain't here?" asked Mrs. Beaver in accents so awful that her listeners quaked. "Well, I'll see the reason why!" Out into the night she sallied, picking her way around the puddles until she reached the saloon at the corner.