Mahala looked at her father to see what effect this would have, and her heart took one surging leap and then stopped for an instant and stood still, frightened by the whiteness of Mahlon Spellman’s face. She noticed his grip upon the fork he was handling and that his hand was shaking so that he put back upon his plate the food he was intending to lift to his lips. For one long instant Mahala surveyed him and a little bit of the light went out of her eyes, the keenest edge of the colour washing in her cheeks faded. She saw the shaking hand, and in her heart she said: “Either Papa is dreadfully troubled, or he’s getting old; and come to think of it, he is nearly twenty years older than Mama. He’s been a darling papa, so I’ve got to begin taking extra good care of him.” Her mind reverted to the variety of care that always had been taken of her, and while she rebelled against a great deal of it, even as she was now rebelling against this distinction to be made between her and her classmates, she was placed where all her life she had been placed, in such a position that she would look heartless and ungracious to refuse. “I am going,” said Elizabeth Spellman, “to spread a sheet all over the back seat of the surrey and on the floor. Jemima has wiped the seats very carefully and the steps, and swept the carpet until there isn’t a particle of dust. You cannot crowd into that omnibus without crushing your skirts. I think we can lift them in such a manner when you enter the surrey, that by occupying the back seat alone, you won’t need to sit upon them at all. It will enable you to head the procession down the church aisle with your frock as fresh and immaculate as when it is lifted from the form to be put upon you.” “Very well, Mama,” said Mahala with a little sigh. “It’s awfully good of you and Papa to take so much trouble and I do appreciate it, but I cannot help thinking it would be better——” “There, there, Mahala!” said Mrs. Spellman. A queer, ugly red with which Mahala was very familiar crept into her mother’s cheeks. So nothing more was said on the subject until that night in the sweltering heat when the Newberry House omnibus had pounded up and down and across Ashwater, picking up a red-faced boy here, a perspiring girl there, pausing in state before the humble door of Susanna and shortly thereafter before the gate of the banker. The surrey was waiting to take Mr. and Mrs. Moreland to the church. Junior’s mother came on the veranda with him and stood looking him over. Her face was very pale and her hands were trembling. “Do you think,” she questioned eagerly, “that you won’t get frightened, that you can remember your speech?”