“‘Simplicity marked all the arrangements,’” he read. “‘Only the bride’s mother and the necessary witnesses were present--dined very quietly at Sherry’s--scarce noted in the fashionable throng of the great dining room--Colonel Craighill’s private car attached to the Pittsburg Flyer’--and so on,” and Wayne shook out the paper to display the portraits of Colonel and Mrs. Craighill and a view of the Craighill home. The picture of the house evoked an exclamation of disgust from Mrs. Blair. “Oh, Wayne, they might have spared us that! The house--it hurts worse than anything else. It’s sacrilege--it isn’t fair.” Wayne folded the paper and thrust it into his pocket to get it out of her sight. “Now, Sis, you’ve got to cheer up. You’re looking bullier than ever this morning. Those clothes must have eaten a hole in John’s check-book. It’s rather nasty of John not to come down and face the music with you.” “John couldn’t; he simply couldn’t,” she declared defensively. “Wouldn’t, you mean! John Blair is not a man to get up to meet his wife’s relations on an early train if he can duck it. But the kids help out a lot. They’re a charming feature of the morning. You ought to have taught them to sing a carol and scatter flowers as grandpapa comes through the gates leading their new grandmama by the hand. It would have been nuts for those reporters over there with the camera men.” “No; you don’t mean that _they_ are here!” she gasped. He indicated with a nod several men and two women waiting near the news-stand. They carried cameras and were watching Wayne and his sister with interest. “The women are the society reporters; they’re going to do this thing right. Mrs. Craighill’s coming-home gown will be described in proper dry-goods language; no blundering male eye for this job!” “How perfectly horrible! I wish I hadn’t brought the children if we’re all to get into the papers.” “Brace up! You can’t flinch now. Besides, there’s the train!” He led the way out of the waiting room and into the train-shed as the New York express rolled heavily in. The private car was at the end of the train and before they reached it Colonel Craighill’s children saw his tall figure in the vestibule. Their eyes were, however, upon the lady behind him, whose hat and coat had already been appraised by Mrs. Blair in that sharp _coup d’œil_ by which one woman dissects the garb of another. The porter jumped out with his arms filled with hand baggage, and as Colonel Craighill stepped sedately forth, Mrs. Blair’s arms were at once about her father’s neck. For an instant there was a sob in her throat, but she stifled it and her hands were immediately extended to her father’s wife, who hesitated upon the car steps. “Fanny, this is my wife, Adelaide. Good morning, Wayne!”