In Blue Creek Canon Part 26

All was, the boys didn't mean to like you anyway, and didn't want you to come. The day you came, they went down to the station, and hid around, waiting to get a look at you, to see what you were like. And the worst of it all was"--Allie paused mischievously, and then went on; "they found you weren't half so bad as they supposed you were going to be."

"If we could only go back again, and start there all over fresh!" sighed Marjorie.

"We couldn't have a bit better time than we have had," returned Charlie.

"We've made the most of our chance, and we may as well be thankful for it. Oh, but didn't I feel shaky, that first morning, when the train stopped, and I had to get out! Allie looked about ten feet high and thirty years old, when I saw her standing on the platform; and I was sure I was going to be afraid of her. Wasn't, though," he concluded, giving her hair a friendly tweak.

"Besides, 't isn't quite so bad as if we had to go right away," added Allie hopefully, as they rose to go home. "We have two months more; and there's time for ever so much to happen, between now and then."

But the two months hurried past them, and, before any one realized it, the Burnams were on the eve of their departure. As Marjorie had said when the subject was first mentioned, it was harder to stay than to go, for those left behind had to keep on in the same old routine, where they so keenly felt the loss of their friends who, on their side, were full of antic.i.p.ations for the new places they would see, the new acquaintances they would make, while the bustle and excitement of packing kept them too busy to realize all that they were leaving behind them.

It had been decided that the Burnams were to go away from Blue Creek the last week in June, and, soon after this plan was arranged, Louise and Dr. Brownlee had announced their intention of being married on the twenty-fourth, in order that their friends might be present at the wedding, so the last few weeks had found the Everett household in as great excitement as were the Burnams. It was to be only a quiet church wedding, followed by a small reception. Louise had reduced Allie and Marjorie to a state of speechless delight, by asking them to be her bridesmaids; while the doctor had laughingly protested that Charlie and Ned should act as ushers, since they had been instrumental in bringing himself and Louise together. After a little discussion, this plan had been adopted, and the four young people were much impressed with their consequence, in taking part, for the first time, in so important a ceremony.

On the evening before the wedding, they all walked up together from their rehearsal in the chapel, and stopped for a little while on the Everetts' front steps, where they were joined by Howard and Grant.

"To-morrow, and the next day, and the next, and then it will all be over," said Marjorie pensively.

"I honestly haven't had time to think about it, this last week," said Allie. "We've been so topsyturvy and busy that I haven't thought of anything but packing and the wedding."

"No; we'll be the ones to do the thinking," said Ned, as he stretched himself out at his ease, on the railing to the little porch. "With Lou married, and you three going, there's nothing else left for us to do.

I'm going to turn hermit, and move up the gulch."

"I wouldn't, before fall, if I were in your place," returned Howard, in a tone too low to catch the ears of the others.

"What's next fall?" asked Ned listlessly.

"Don't you give it away that I told you," said Howard, while he joined his friend on the rail; "but I happened to hear your father talking to my father, to-day; and it's all settled that you and Grant are coming to St. Paul, next winter, to board with us, and go to school. Hush up!" he added, as Ned gave a little exclamation of delight. "Don't tell the others, for I oughtn't to have said anything about it; but I couldn't hold in any longer."

For an hour more, they sat there; then Grant's voice broke the hush, as he put his head in at the open window of the parlor, where his sister and Dr. Brownlee were sitting in the moonlight.

"That's the seventh time you've said good night, Lou," he remarked, in a hollow tone; "and I should think the eighth 'most ought to do the business, unless you want to be dead sleepy, to-morrow night, while you're in the middle of being tied up."

The next evening found the chapel crowded. Every seat was occupied, and the side aisles were filled with the miners and their wives, who stood waiting to look on at the marriage of "our Miss Lou," for she was a favorite with them all. At length the murmur of voices died away, as Mr.

Nelson took his place in the chancel, while the little organ pealed out the opening strains of the wedding march. A moment later, the doors swung open and the bridal party entered, Charlie and Ned leading the way, with Allie and Marjorie following them, while Mr. Everett and his daughter came after them. Louise was beautiful, in her simple white silk gown, although she looked a little pale and nervous, as she saw so many eyes turned upon her. Then she forgot it all, all the crowd and the excitement, and even the friends gathered about her, and her face grew radiant with her love, for Dr. Brownlee had met her at the head of the aisle, to lead her forward to the altar; and above the low notes of the organ, she heard the quiet, earnest voice, as it followed Mr. Nelson's through the familiar words,--

"I, Winthrop, take thee, Louise, to my wedded wife."

Their troths were plighted, the ring was slipped into place, and the blessing was p.r.o.nounced. Then, as Winthrop Brownlee and his bride turned to face the congregation once more, the organ rang out in a triumphal march, and the bell in the little tower overhead burst into a merry peal. The sound rolled far up and down the valley, and the mountains echoed back the happy tidings; then the evening quiet once more descended upon Blue Creek Canon.

L'ENVOI.

The last leaf ended, ere you lay My book aside, and turn to rest, Read here, old friends, between the lines, My loving memories of your West.

The distance shortens to my eyes; To-morrow's sun will sink to rest Behind your hills. One day is all That separates us, East and West.

Then hasten forth, my little book, Speed on your way, nor pause to rest; But, turning towards the setting sun, My greetings bear from East to West.

"TREMONT," Twenty-seventh May, 1892.

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