“Oh, mother, isn’t it nice to be home again?” Grace Harlowe dropped into her favorite chair and surveyed the familiar living-room with the same glad appreciation she would have bestowed upon a long-lost friend.  “I’ve loved being with the girls; but, after all, home is best.  I’m fortunate in that I am going to live so near to you.  If Tom goes back to the Forestry Department this winter, I’m afraid I shall leave Haven Home more than once to take care of itself and come trotting back to you.  It will be dreadfully lonely there with Tom away.  Not that it isn’t the most beautiful place in the world, but then, you are you, and I can’t do without you.”

“I have been obliged to give you up the greater part of the last six years.  I suppose I ought to feel resigned to it by this time.”  Mrs. Harlowe’s smile hinted at wistfulness.  “I am glad to be home again, too.  I hope we haven’t forgotten to buy every single thing you need.  I imagine your wedding gown will come to-day.  Let me see.  It was to have been finished the day we left New York.  We’ve been home two days.  Yes, I think we may expect it to-day, or not later than to-morrow.  There’s the doorbell ringing now.  Perhaps it’s the expressman.”

Springing to her feet, Grace hurried to the door.  “Here’s your expressman,” she laughed, as she reappeared, her arm linked in that of Nora Wingate.

“Good morning, Nora,” greeted Mrs. Harlowe.  Rising, she advanced to Nora, kissing her with evident affection.  “We were wondering what had become of you.  We haven’t seen you since we came home.”

“Hippy and I went away for the week end.  We returned only this morning.  I was anxious to see you both, also Grace’s wedding finery, so I came over bright and early.”

“We brought it all back with us, except my wedding gown, Nora.  I’m expecting that at almost any moment.  I’m anxious to try on the whole outfit.  Then I’ll know how I’m going to look as a bride.”

“Oh, you mustn’t do that!” exclaimed Nora in horrified tones.  “It’s dreadfully unlucky.  Didn’t you know it?”

“I am not superstitious,” laughed Grace.  “I fail to see why trying on one’s wedding gown beforehand should bring bad luck.  I am surely going to do it when it comes, just to prove the fallacy of the superstition.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”  Nora’s dark brows met in a troubled frown.  “Perhaps it is foolish in me to feel like that about it.  But I do.  I suppose it’s because I’m Irish.  The daughters of Erin have always been a superstitious lot.  Don’t ever tell Hippy that I admitted even that much.  He would tease me for a week about it.”

“It shall remain a dark secret,” gayly assured Grace.  “As it is, I may continue to consider myself as lucky till the gown puts in an appearance.  After that, look out for trouble.  You’d better stay to luncheon to-day, Nora, so as to be here when the great trying-on moment dawns.”

“Thank you.  I will.”  Nora’s lately-clouded face brightened.  “I’ll leave Hippy to lunch in solitary state.  I’ll telephone him to that effect.  It will teach him to appreciate his blessings.”  Nora dimpled roguishly as she tripped to the hall to acquaint Hippy with the fell prospect in store for him.  She returned to the living-room with the mirthful information:  “He says he resigns himself to his fate, but that he will prepare for my triumphal home-coming this evening.  That means he will do something ridiculous.  The last time I left him to his own folly, he decorated the dining-room with all sorts of absurd signs ­’What is home without the Irish?’ ‘In memory of my late lamented guardian,’ and ’Not gone for good, but merely gadding.’” Nora giggled as she recounted these pleasant tokens of welcome.

“You and Hippy will never grow up,” Mrs. Harlowe declared indulgently.  “You play at keeping house like two children.”

“I think it’s lovely,” nodded Grace.  “When I start on my pilgrimage I’m not going to think that I shall ever grow into a staid, stately married person.  I’m going to keep the spirit of youth alive until I’m old and gray-headed.  Did I dream it, Nora, or did I see you lay your work bag on the hall settee?  I hope it’s a reality.  These are busy times, you know.  I’m a hard-working individual.  So is Mother.  If I see someone else blissfully idle it has a bad effect upon me.”

“Don’t worry, I brought my work.  I am still in the throes of that lunch cloth I’m embroidering for Miriam.  I’ve a lot to do to it yet before it’s finished, so I can’t afford to be idle, either.”

Repairing to the summer house, the three women fell to work with commendable energy on their self-imposed tasks.  It was a glorious midsummer morning and the picturesque pagoda at the foot of the garden proved an ideal retreat.  Despite her sturdy declaration that she could not afford to be idle, more than once Grace’s embroidery dropped from her hands as her gray eyes dreamily drank in the beauty of the riotously-blooming garden of old-fashioned flowers, the close-clipped, tree-decked lawn and the thousand and one details that made her childhood’s home seem daily dearer now that she was so soon to leave it.

“Wake up, Grace,” playfully admonished her mother, her eyes chancing to rest on her daughter’s rapt face.  “If my ears do not deceive me, I think I heard the doorbell.  Perhaps it is the expressman.”

“I hope it is.”  Hastily dropping her embroidery to the rustic bench on which she was seated, Grace rose and set off in a hurry toward the not-far-distant house.  It was several minutes before she returned, her radiant face registered the news that the long-looked-for express package had materialized.

“At last!” was her jubilant cry when half way across the lawn.  “No more work for me until after luncheon.  Come up to the house, both of you.  The grand try-on is about to begin.  We’ll just have time for it before luncheon.  Kindly go to the living-room and obtain front seats for the performance.”  Having delivered this merry injunction, Grace turned and went back to the house.

Laying aside their work in obedience to the prospective bride’s command, Mrs. Harlowe and Nora proceeded in leisurely fashion to the house, there to await Grace’s pleasure.

“Go on into the living-room, Nora,” said Mrs. Harlowe as they stepped into the hall.  “I must see Bridget about luncheon.  I’ll return directly.”

Left to herself, Nora went over to the piano.  Her fingers wandering lightly over the keys, almost unconsciously she dropped into the plaintive prelude of Tosti’s “Good-bye.”  Why that particularly pathetic farewell to summer and love should have occurred to her at such a time she did not know.  Whether it had been superinduced by her rooted superstition against Grace’s determination to try on her wedding gown beforehand, or whether her emotional temperament had sensed the stirring of far-off things, Nora could not explain.

Very softly she sang the mournful words of the first verse.  She was about to go on with the second when, Mrs. Harlowe appearing in the living-room, Nora swung about on the piano stool.

“Finish your song, Nora,” begged Mrs. Harlowe.  “I am very fond of the ‘Good-bye.’  It is distinctly melancholy, but beautiful.  To me, all Tosti’s songs are wonderful.  The ‘Venetian Song’ and the ‘Serenata’ are both exquisite.  It seems a pity that the more modern composers have given us so little that is really worth while.”

“I know it.  Still we have Chaminade and Nevin and De Bussy.  Some of De Bussy’s tone poems are marvels.  I love ‘La Lettre’ and ‘La Muette.’”

“I don’t think I have ever heard either of them,” returned Mrs. Harlowe.  “I know very little of the modern music of the French school.”

“I’ll sing ‘La Lettre’ for you.”  Nora faced the piano to render the exquisite inspiration of the noted French composer.  “Before I sing it,” she added, turning her head toward Mrs. Harlowe, “I had better try to tell you something about it.  It is about a letter somebody writes to a loved one, late in the night when everything is absolutely silent in the house.  Roughly translated it begins, ’I write to you, and the lamp listens.’  Both the words and the music make one feel as though the bond between the two persons was so strong that they could almost communicate one with the other by thought.  That is really the idea De Bussy has tried to convey in his music and one can’t help but understand it.  He brings it out strongly in the last part of the song where the writer of the letter says:  ’Half dreaming, I wonder:  Is it I who write to thee, or thou to me?’ Then it ends with a distant clock striking the hour.  Listen and you’ll hear it.”

Listener and singer both intent on the song, neither heard the bride-to-be descending the stairs.  Not wishing to interrupt them, Grace paused behind the portieres that draped the wide doorway into the living-room until Nora should finish.  With her, “La Lettre” had always been a favorite song.  Long afterward, when the shadow of the unexpected hung darkly over her, she recalled that significant moment of waiting.

“It is undeniably perfect,” was Mrs. Harlowe’s appreciative comment when the last note, representing the striking of the distant clock, had died away.  “I had no idea ­”

“Oh, Grace!” Nora’s glance had suddenly strayed to the slender, white-robed figure that was making a sedate advance into the living-room.  Whirling mischievously she played a few bars of “Mendelsohn’s Wedding March,” then sprang from the piano stool and ran forward with outstretched hands.  “You are truly magnificent!” she breathed impulsively.

Mrs. Harlowe had also risen.  Was this radiant young woman in lustrous white satin, whose changeful face looked out so sweetly from the softly flowing bridal veil, the same little Grace Harlowe who had not so very long ago romped her tom-boyish way through childhood?  A mist rose to her eyes, soft with brooding mother love, as she walked forward and took Grace gently in her arms.

For an instant the three women remained wrapped in a kind of triangular embrace.  Then Mrs. Harlowe released her daughter with a fond, “Walk across the room, Grace, so that we can get the full effect of your grandeur.”

“It’s a darling gown,” praised Nora.  “I like it ever so much better than Jessica’s, Anne’s or mine.  I can’t blame you for wanting to dress up in it beforehand.  I take back all my croaking.  Here’s hoping good luck will roost permanently on your doorstep.”

“It ought to,” was Grace’s fervent response, “with everyone so perfectly sweet to me and with all the trouble that Mother is taking to give me pleasure.  I feel as though ­”

The reverberating peal of the door bell cut Grace’s words short.  “Don’t answer it until I am out of sight!” she exclaimed, scurrying nimbly toward the hall.  A flash of white on the stairs and she was gone.

“Good morning, Mother mine.  Is Grace here?” Tom Gray’s impetuous inquiry betokened strong excitement.

“Good morning, Tom.  Come in.  Grace has just vanished up the stairs.  I’ll let her tell you why she left us in such a hurry.”  Mrs. Harlowe smilingly ushered Tom into the living-room.  “Nora, you can play hostess.  I will go and tell Grace that Tom is here.”

“Thank you.”  Tom cast a grateful look after Mrs. Harlowe’s retreating back.  Following Nora into the living-room he seated himself nervously on the davenport, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

Nora eyed him in sober speculation.  She would have liked to inquire into the nature of his excitement.  Courtesy forbidding her to do so, she indulged only in commonplaces to which Tom replied almost absently.  It was evident that something remarkable must have happened to thus upset Tom’s equanimity.  The sound of Grace’s light feet on the stairs was a matter of relief to her.  Excusing herself to the impatient lover, she left the room, wondering if, after all, there could be a remote possibility that her prediction of ill luck was about to be fulfilled.