Apron-Strings. Gates Eleanor
stopped short. His jaw dropped. His eyes widened, and fixed themselves in undisguised admiration upon a young woman who had entered the room behind Mrs. Milo—a lankish, but graceful young woman, radiant in a gown of shimmering satin, her fair hair haloed by carefully carried lengths of misty tulle. "And so," resumed the florist, absent-mindedly, "and so—and so——"
Mrs. Milo moved across the carpet to a sofa, adjusted a velvet cushion, and seated herself. "Go and do your work," she said sharply. "It must be finished this afternoon. And remember: I don't want to see you in this room again."
"Very well, madam." With a smile and a bow, neither of which was intended for Mrs. Milo, the florist recovered his self-possession, threw wide his hands in a gesture that was an eloquent tribute to the shining apparition at the farther end of the room, and backed out.
"Ha-a-a!" sighed Mrs. Milo—with gratification in her triumph over the decorator, and with a sense of comfort in that cushioned corner of her favorite sofa. She settled her slender shoulders against the velvet.
Now the satin gown crossed the carpet, and its wearer let fall the veiling which she had upborne on her outstretched arms. "Mrs. Milo," she began.
"Oh!" Mrs. Milo straightened, but without turning, and the fear that the other had heard her curt dismissal of the florist showed in the quick shifting of her look. When she spoke again, her voice was all gentleness. "Yes, my dear new daughter?" she inquired.
Hattie Balcome cocked her head to one side, extended a satin-clad foot, threw out her hands with fingers extended, and struck a grotesque pose. "Turn—and behold!" she bade sepulchrally.
Mrs. Milo turned. "A-a-a-ah!" Then having given the wedding-gown a brief scrutiny, "Er—yes—hm! It's quite pretty."
"Quite pretty!" repeated Hattie. She revolved once, slowly. "What's the matter with it?"
"We-e-e-ell," began Mrs. Milo, appraising the gown at more length; "isn't it rather simple, my dear—for a girl whose father is as wealthy as yours? Somehow I expected at least a little real lace."
Hattie laughed. "What on earth could I do with real lace in the mountains of Peru?"
"Peru!" Instantly Mrs. Milo's face grew long. "Then—then my son has finally decided to accept the position in Peru." Now she took her underlip in her teeth; and her lashes fluttered as if to keep back tears.
"But you won't miss him terribly, will you? As it is you don't have him—you don't see such a lot of him."
"Of course, as you say, I don't have him—except for a couple of weeks in the summer, when Sue has her vacation, and we all go to the Catskills. Then at Christmastime he comes here for a week. Sue has never asked permission to have Wallace live at the Rectory——"
"Except of Mr. Farvel."
"Mr. Farvel didn't have to be asked. He and Wallace are old friends.
They met years ago—once when Wallace went to Canada with a boy chum.
And Canada's the farthest he's ever been, so——"
"It was I who decided on Peru," said the girl, almost defiantly. "The very day he proposed to me he told me about the big silver mine down there that wants a young engineer. And I said Yes on one condition: that Wallace would take me as far away from home as possible."
The elder woman rose, finger on lip. "Sh!" she cautioned, glancing toward the door left open by the florist. "Oh, we don't want any gossip, Hattie!"
Hattie lifted her eyebrows. "We don't want it," she agreed, "but we shall get it. They'll all be asking one another, 'Why not the Church? or the drawing-room? Why the yard?'" She nodded portentously.
Mrs. Milo came nearer. "They'll never suspect," she promised. "Outdoor weddings are very fashionable."
"Maybe. But what I can't understand is this: Dad's heart is set on this marriage. He wants to get me out of the way." Then as Mrs. Milo's expression changed from a gratified beam to a stare of horror, "Oh, don't be shocked; he has his good reasons. But as I'm going, why can't he make a few concessions, instead of trying to spoil the wedding?"
"Spoil, dear?" chided the elder woman. "The wedding will be beautiful in the Close."
Hattie's brown eyes swam with sudden tears. "Perhaps," she answered.
"But just for this one time, why can't my father and mother——"
"Please, Hattie!" pleaded Mrs. Milo. "We must be discreet!" Then to change the subject, "My dear, let me see the back."
Once more Hattie revolved accommodatingly. Close to the door leading to the lawn was a door which led, by a short passage, to the little, old Gothic church which, long planted on its generous allowance of grounds, had defied—along with an Orphanage that was all but a part of the Church, so near did the two buildings stand—the encroachment of new, tall, office structures. As Hattie turned about, she kept her watch on the door leading to the Church.
"It's really very sweet," condescended Mrs. Milo. "But—you mustn't let Wallace get a glimpse of this dress before tomorrow." She shook a playful finger. "That would be bad luck. Now—what does Susan think of it?" She seated herself to receive the verdict.
Hattie wagged her head in mock despair. "Oh," she complained, "how I've tried to find out!"
All Mrs. Milo's playfulness went. She stood up, her manner suddenly anxious. "Isn't she upstairs?" she asked.
One solemn finger was pointed ceilingward. "I have even paged the attic!"
Mrs. Milo hastened across the room. "Why, she must be upstairs," she cried. "I sent her up not an hour ago."
"Well, the villain has just naturally come down."
"Susan! Susan!"—Mrs. Milo was calling into the hall leading to the upper floors of the Rectory. "Look in the vestibule, Hattie."
"Perhaps she has escaped to the Orphanage." Hattie gave a teasing laugh over her shoulder as she moved to obey.
Mrs. Milo had abandoned the hall door by now, and was fluttering toward the library. "Orphanage?" she repeated. "Oh, not without consulting me. And besides there's so much to be done in this house before tomorrow.—Susan! Susan!" She went out, calling more impatiently.
As Hattie disappeared into the vestibule, that door from the passage, upon which she had kept a watch, was opened, slowly and cautiously, and the tousled head of a boy was thrust in. Seeing that the drawing-room was vacant, the boy now threw the door wide, disclosing nine other small heads, but nine more carefully combed. The ten were packed in the narrow passage, and did not move forward with the opening of the door. Their freshly washed faces were eager; but they contented themselves with rising on tiptoe to peer into the room. About them, worn over black cassocks, hung their spotless cottas. Choir boys they were, but on every small countenance was written the indefinable mark of the orphan-reared.
Now he of the tousled hair stole forward across the sill. And boldly signaled the others. "St!—Aw, come on!" he cried. "What're you 'fraid of! Didn't the new minister tell us to wait in here?"
The choir obeyed him, but without argument. As each cotta-clad figure advanced, eyes were directed toward doors, and hands mutely signed what tongues feared to utter. One boy came to the sofa and gingerly smoothed a velvet pillow; whispering and pointing, the others scattered—to look up at a painting of a bishop of the Anglican Church, which hung above the mantel, to open the Bible on the small mahogany table that held the center of the room, to touch the grand piano with moist and marking finger-tips, and to gaze with awe upon two huge and branching candlesticks that flanked a marble clock above the hearth.
Now a husky whisper broke the unwonted silence of the choir; and an excited, finger directed all eyes to the painting of the Bishop: "Oh, fellers! Fellers!" He rallied his companions with his other arm. "Look-ee! Look-ee! That's Momsey's father!"
"Momsey's father!" It was the tousled chorister, and he plowed his way forward through the gathering choir before the hearth. "What're you talkin' about? Momsey's father wasn't a minister."
But