Mr. Carleton had been somewhat puzzled by all these elaborate preparations, and had ventured a gentle remonstrance to his sister. "Why take so much trouble, Susie? Julia will get the child everything she needs, and I'll attend to the bills. You needn't worry about Marjorie's being well-dressed; you know Julia has excellent taste." But Mrs. Graham was resolute. She knew well that her own ideas of dress and those of her New York sister-in-law were very different, but she was not without her share of family pride, and was not willing that Marjorie should appear before her Eastern relatives in clothes unfit for her position. But alas! It was twelve years since Mrs. Graham had left her New York home, and styles change a good deal in twelve years. Every one had kept up bravely during that busy week, and they had all been extremely cheerful. Marjorie never knew of the bitter tears shed by mother and aunt in the solitude of their own rooms, and Mrs. Graham's heart would have ached even more than it did had she known of the hours Marjorie lay awake, her head buried deep in the pillow, so that Aunt Jessie in the next room, should not hear her crying. Every one knew it was for the best. Even Marjorie, miserable as she was sometimes at the thought of the two thousand miles which must soon lie between herself and the people she loved best, would have been keenly disappointed if Uncle Henry had suddenly changed his mind, or Aunt Julia written that it would not be convenient to have her. All through that last day she had worked hard, trying not to think about to-morrow, but now everything was done and everybody was resting after their labors. Marjorie had sat on the porch for an hour with her mother and aunt, and they had all tried to talk cheerfully as usual, but it was of no use. There was a dreadful inclination on all their parts to drop into long silences, which nobody seemed able to break. They were alone, for Mr. Carleton and his brother-in-law had gone for a walk, and Undine was helping Juanita in the kitchen. At last, at the end of a longer silence than usual, Marjorie, feeling sure she shouldn't be able to hold out much longer, suddenly sprang up, explaining hurriedly: "I'll be right back; I'm just going to the stables for a moment to say good-by to Roland." And she was off across the lawn, biting her lip to keep back the sobs that must not come until she was out of sight and hearing of her dear ones. The bidding good-by to her pony was a rather lengthy proceeding. She was alone, for the men had all gone off to their suppers, so she had her cry out on Roland's neck, and whispered her last loving instructions into his faithful ears.