"Zac, shut up!" said Cyrus. "Go back, and stay on the porch."
But Zac preferred to accompany the expedition. Without openly refusing
to obey, he merely bounced about, just out of reach, wagged his tail
and smiled in the faces of the bride and groom.
"Shall we let him come?" said Cyrus.
Ruth hesitated, but only for an instant. "No. A dog barking at a
wedding would be unreligious."
So Cyrus, by pleadings, threats and gentle force induced his more
worldly comrade to remain without. But he said good-by to him as he
turned away. For, in parting with this bachelor friend, he may have had
feelings in common with other matrimonial heroes when marching to the
altar.
Meanwhile, the Rev. George Bentley Heywood, father of the prospective
bride, stood at the west window of his study. His thoughts were far
away. In his hand was a letter from a friend in China. This friend,
a missionary, had presented, in eloquent and convincing words, the
various joys, spiritual, material and social that attended the servant
of God when converting the heathen of the Orient.
Mr. Heywood's imagination had responded to the winged words and was
already disporting itself in the Chinese vineyard. There had been other
letters, all with the same message. And, now, standing at the window
with the letter in his hand, he was thinking, and thinking hard, over
the most important decision of his life.
Mr. Heywood was a serious man. Upon his person lay no superfluous
flesh. His face, otherwise severe, was tempered by the eyes of a
poet--eyes of a gentle, somewhat solemn beauty. They were pleasant to
look into. Ruth had inherited these eyes, and in her childish face they
shone with an added beauty. They were dreamy eyes, a soft brown-black
with blacker lashes, and either tragic or mirthful, as occasion called.
When the study door opened--with no preliminary knock--there was
annoyance in the clergyman's manner as his eyes turned toward the
intruder. This time there were two intruders,--Cyrus and his fiancée.
Mr. Heywood frowned when the two small people advanced to the center of
the room. He was in no mood for answering children's questions. But, as
he frowned, Cyrus bowed--one of his best and most elaborate efforts,
bringing the heel of one foot against the instep of the other, all
with a gracious, sweeping salutation of his free hand--the one that
was not leading Ruth. It was the greeting of one gentleman of the old
school to another, of deference and good wishes. Mr. Heywood, partly,
perhaps, from his thoughts being in China, found himself also bowing
deferentially, as if to some exalted and venerable person. Suddenly
realizing the absurdity of such an obeisance he straightened up and
frowned again. Then he spoke more harshly than if he had not blundered
into such a foolish action.
"Well, children, what is it?"