"
"She says she is going to have the ceremony performed out here in
the orchard under her own tree," said the Story Girl. "Won't that
be romantic? It almost makes me feel like getting married myself."
"What a way to talk," rebuked Felicity, "and you only fifteen."
"Lots of people have been married at fifteen," laughed the Story
Girl. "Lady Jane Gray was."
"But you are always saying that Valeria H. Montague's stories are
silly and not true to life, so that is no argument," retorted
Felicity, who knew more about cooking than about history, and
evidently imagined that the Lady Jane Gray was one of Valeria's
titled heroines.
The wedding was a perennial source of conversation among us in
those days; but presently its interest palled for a time in the
light of another quite tremendous happening. One Saturday night
Peter's mother called to take him home with her for Sunday. She
had been working at Mr. James Frewen's, and Mr. Frewen was driving
her home. We had never seen Peter's mother before, and we looked
at her with discreet curiosity. She was a plump, black-eyed
little woman, neat as a pin, but with a rather tired and care-worn
face that looked as if it should have been rosy and jolly. Life
had been a hard battle for her, and I rather think that her curly-
headed little lad was all that had kept heart and spirit in her.
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