Ann Hicks, both in rose-color, completing a color scheme worthy of the taste of whoever had originated it. For the sheer beauty of the picture, this wedding would long be remembered.

In the very last pew, on the aisle, sat an eager old colored woman—one of those typical “mammies” now so seldom seen—in an old-fashioned bonnet and shawl. She was of a bulbous figure, and her dark face shone with perspiration and delight as she stared at the coming bride and groom.

Jennie saw Mammy Rose (the old woman had been a dependent of the Stone family for years), and had the occasion been much more serious than Jennie thought it, the plump girl would surely have smiled at Mammy Rose.

The old woman bobbed up, making an old-time genuflection. She thrust out a neat, paper-covered parcel which she had held carefully in her capacious lap all through the ceremony.

“Miss Janie—ma blessed baby!” she whispered. “I is suttenly glad to see dis here day! Heaven is a-smilin’ on yo’. And here is one o’ ma birfday cakes yo’ liked so mighty well. Mammy Rose done make it for her chile—de las’ she ever will make yo’ now yo’ is goin’ to foreign paths.”

Another girl than Jennie might have been confused, or even angered, by the interruption of the procession. But Jennie could be nothing if not kind. Her own hands were filled with her bouquet—it was enormous. She stopped, however, before the old woman.

“As thoughtful for me as ever, Mammy Rose, aren’t you?” she said pleasantly. “And you know all my little failings. Henri,” she said to her husband.

But the courtly young Frenchman had quite as great a sense of noblesse oblige as his bride. He bowed to the black woman as though she was the highest lady in the land and accepted the parcel, tied clumsily with baby ribbon by the gnarled fingers of Mammy Rose.

They moved on and the smiling, yet tearful, old woman, sank back into her seat. If there was anything needed to make this a perfect occasion, it was this little incident. The bride and groom came out into the smiling sunshine with sunshine in their hearts as well as on their faces.

“I knew,” whispered Helen Cameron to Ann Hicks, who stalked beside her in rather a mannish way, “that Heavy Stone could not even be married without something ridiculous happening.”

“‘Ridiculous’?” repeated the Western girl, with something like a catch in her throat.

“Well, it might have been ridiculous,” admitted Helen. “Only, after all, Jennie is real—and so is Major Marchand. You couldn’t feaze him, not even if a bomb had been dropped in the church vestibule.”

They were crowding into the motor-cars then, and merrily the wedding party sped back to the big house on Madison Avenue, which had been garnished for the occasion with the same taste that marked the color-scheme of the bride’s attendants. The canopied steps and walk, the footmen in line to receive the party, and the banked flowers in the reception hall were all impressive.

“My!” whispered the irrepressible Jennie to Henri, “I feel like a prima donna.”

“You are,” was his prompt and earnest agreement.

They trooped in at once to the breakfast table. The spacious room was wreathed with smilax and other vines—even to the great chandelier. The latter was so hidden by the decorations that it seemed overladen, and Tom Cameron, who had a quick eye, mentioned it to Ruth.

“Wonder if those fellows braced that thing with wires? Florists sometimes have more sense of art than common sense.”

“Hush, Tom! Nothing can happen to spoil this occasion. Isn’t it wonderful?”

But Tom Cameron looked at her rather gloomily. He shook his head slightly.

“I feel like one of those pictures of the starving children in Armenia. I’m standing on the outside, looking in.”

It is true that Ruth Fielding flushed, but she refused to make reply. A moment later, when Tom realized how the seating of the party had been arranged, his countenance showed even deeper gloom.

As best man Tom was directed to Jennie’s right hand. On the other side of Henri, Ruth was seated, and that placed her across the wide table from Tom Cameron.

The smiling maid of honor was well worth looking at, and Tom Cameron should have been content to focus his eyes upon her whenever he raised them from his plate; but for a particular reason he was not at all pleased.

This particular reason was the seating of another figure in military uniform next to Ruth on her other side. This was a tall, pink-cheeked, well set-up youth looking as though, like Tom, he had seen military service, and with an abundance of light hair above his broad brow. At school Chessleigh Copley had been nicknamed “Lasses” because of that crop of hair.

He entered into conversation with Ruth at once, and he found her so interesting (or she found him so interesting) that Ruth had little attention to give to her vis-à-vis across the table.

The latter’s countenance grew heavier and heavier, his dark brows drawing together and his black eyes smouldering.

If anybody noticed this change in Tom’s countenance it was his twin sister, sitting on Ruth’s side of the table. And perhaps she understood her brother’s mood. Now and then her own eyes flashed something besides curiosity along the table on her side at Ruth and Chess Copley, so evidently lost in each other’s companionship.

But it was a gay party. How could it be otherwise with Jennie at the table? And everybody was bound to second the gaiety of the bride. The groom’s pride in Jennie was so open, yet so very courteously expressed, that half the girls there envied Jennie her possession of Henri Marchand.

“To think,” drawled Ann Hicks, who had come East from Silver Ranch, “that Heavy Stone should grab off such a prize in the matrimonial grab-bag. My!” and she finished with a sigh.

“When does your turn come, Ann?” asked somebody.

“Believe me,” said the ranch girl, with emphasis, “I have got to see somebody besides cowpunchers and horse-wranglers before I make such a fatal move.”

“You have lost all your imagination,” laughed Helen, from across the table.

“I don’t know. Maybe I used it all up, back in those old kid days when I ran away to be ‘Nita’ and played at being ‘the abused chee-ild’. Remember?”

“Oh, don’t we!” cried Helen and some of the other girls.

Something dropped on Tom Cameron’s plate. He glanced up, then down again at the object that had fallen. It was a piece of plaster from the ceiling.

Chess Copley likewise shot a glance ceilingward.

There was a wide gap—and growing wider—on his side of the chandelier. A great piece of the heavy plaster was breaking away from the ceiling, and it hung threateningly over his own and Ruth Fielding’s head.

“Look out, Ruth!” shouted Tom Cameron, jumping to his feet.

Tom Cameron, no matter how desirous he might be of saving Ruth from hurt, could not possibly have got around the table in time. With a snarling, ripping noise the heavy patch of plaster tore away from the ceiling and fell directly upon the spot where the chairs of Ruth and Chess Copley had been placed!

The screams of the startled girls almost drowned the noise of the plaster’s fall, but Ruth Fielding did not join in the outcry.

With one movement, it seemed, Copley had risen and kicked his own chair away, seized Ruth about