“You can’t come in,” the boy called out.

“All right,” Anderson responded.  But then Eddy made a flying leap from the church door and caught hold of his arm.

“Say, you can, if you won’t tell anybody about it,” he whispered, as if the curious village was within ear-shot.

“I am afraid I cannot stop now, thank you,” Anderson replied, smiling.

“You ain’t mad, are you?”

Anderson assured him that he was not.

“They didn’t tell me to keep folks out,” Eddy explained, “but I made up my mind I didn’t want everybody seeing it till it was done.  It’s going to be a stunner, I can tell you.  There’s palms and pots of flowers, and yards and yards of white and green ribbon tied in bows, and the pews are all tied round with evergreen boughs, and to-morrow the smilax is going up.  I tell you, it’s fine.”

“It must be,” said Anderson.  He strove to move on, but could not break free from the boy’s little, clinging hand.  “Just come up the steps and peek in,” pleaded Eddy.  So Anderson yielded weakly and let himself be pulled up the steps to the entrance of the church.

“Ain’t it handsome?” asked Eddy, triumphantly.

“Very,” replied Anderson.

“Say,” said Eddy, “was it as handsome when you were married yourself?”

“I never was married,” replied Anderson, laughing.

“You weren’t?” said Eddy, staring at him.  “Why, I thought you were a widow man.”

“No,” said Anderson.

“Well, why were you never married?” asked Eddy, sharply.

“Oh, for a good many reasons which I have never formulated sufficiently to give,” replied Anderson.

“I hate big words,” said Eddy, “and I didn’t think you would do it.  It’s mean.”

“So it is,” said Anderson, with a kindly look at him.  “Well, all I meant was I couldn’t give my reasons without thinking it over.”

“Perhaps you’ll tell me when you get them thought over,” said Eddy, accepting the apology generously.

“Perhaps.”

Anderson turned to go, after saying again that the church was very handsomely decorated, and Eddy still kept at his side.

“You didn’t stay not married because you couldn’t get a girl to marry you, anyhow, I know that,” said he, “because you are an awful handsome man.  You are better-looking than major Arms.  I should think Ina would a heap rather have married you.”

“Thank you,” said Anderson.

“You are going to the wedding, aren’t you?” asked Eddy.

“No, I think not.”

“Why not?”

“I am very busy.”

“Why, you don’t keep your store open Wednesday evening?” asked Eddy, regarding him sharply.

“I have letters to write,” replied Anderson.

“Oh, shucks! let the letters go!” cried the boy.  “There’s going to be stacks of fun, and lots of things to eat.  There’s chicken salad and lobster, and sandwiches, and ice-cream and cake, and coffee and cake, and—­” The boy hesitated; then he spoke again in a whisper of triumph that had its meaning of pathos:  “They are all paid for.  I know, for I heard papa tell Major Arms.  The carriages are paid for, too, and the florist is going to be paid.”