The Hallowed Moon

Little Don, very proud and important--and somewhat frightened--picked up
the train which he was to bear as page, and down the winding stairway,
by the side of her new-found brother, moved Rose, gowned in traditional
white, made with befitting simplicity, her shimmering hair no longer
crowned with the square of a nurse cap, but by a floating, misty veil
and the orange-blossom wreath of a bride. Never had her warm coloring
been so delicate and changeful, her expressive eyes so deep, or the
fleeting sweetness of her translucent smile so wonderful.

At the foot of the stairs stood Muriel, and three other girl companions,
each with a woven sweetgrass basket--made years ago by little Smiles
herself--filled with rose petals to be strewn in her path, and the
bride's lowered eyes rested tenderly for a moment upon the child that
she so loved. Then she started, and paused. One of them, as tall as
Muriel and more slender, had hair of spun gold, and she was looking up
with an eagerness which she could hardly restrain.

With a low, surprised cry, Smiles hurried downward, drawing her hand
from Philip's arm and extending both her own.

"Little Lou. Can it really be you? Oh, my dear."

And, heedless of the cluster of waiting friends beyond, she caught the
flushing, bashful, happy child into her arms.

"Oh, Smiles, haint hit all too wonderful. Hit's like dreamy-land, an'
I'm plumb erfeered thet I'll wake up an' find hit haint real. But
_yo're_ real, my Smiles, an' oh, how I loves ye."