The next morning， it was clear that war was declared againstthe Bredes. They came down to breakfast somewhat late， and，as soon as they arrived， the Biggleses swooped up the lastfragments that remained on their plates， and made a statelymarch out of the dining-room， Then Miss Hoogencamp aroseand departed， leaving a whole fish-ball on her plate. Even asAtalanta might have dropped an apple behind her to tempther pursuer to check his speed， so Miss Hoogencamp leftthat fish-ball behind her， and between her maiden self andcontamination.
We had finished our breakfast， my wife and I， before theBredes appeared. We talked it over， and agreed that we wereglad that we had not been obliged to take sides upon suchinsufficient testimony.
After breakfast， it was the custom of the male half of theJacobus household to go around the corner of the building andsmoke their pipes and cigars where they would not annoy theladies. We sat under a trellis covered with a grapevine that hadborne no grapes in the memory of man. This vine， however， boreleaves， and these， on that pleasant summer morning， shieldedfrom us two persons who were in earnest conversation in thestraggling， half-dead flower-garden at the side of the house.
“I don’t want，” we heard Mr. Jacobus say， “to enter in noman’spry-vacy； but I do want to know who it may be， like， thatI hev in my house. Now what I ask of you， and I don’t want youto take it as in no ways personal， is—hev you your merridgelicensewith you？”
“No，” we heard the voice of Mr. Brede reply. “Have you yours？”
I think it was a chance shot； but it told all the same. TheMajor （he was a widower） and Mr. Biggle and I looked at eachother； and Mr. Jacobus， on the other side of the grape-trellis，looked at—I don’t know what—and was as silent as we were.
Where is your marriage-license， married reader？ Do youknow？ Four men， not including Mr. Brede， stood or sat on oneside or the other of that grape-trellis， and not one of them knewwhere his marriage-license was. Each of us had had one—theMajor had had three. But where were they？ Where is yours？
Tucked in your best-man’s pocket； deposited in his desk—orwashed to a pulp in his white waistcoat （if white waistcoatsbe the fashion of the hour）， washed out of existence—can youtell where it is？ Can you—unless you are one of those peoplewho frame that interesting document and hang it upon theirdrawing-room walls？
Mr. Brede’s voice arose， after an awful stillness of whatseemed like five minutes， and was， probably， thirty seconds：
“Mr. Jacobus， will you make out your bill at once， and letme pay it？ I shall leave by the six o’clock train. And will youalso send the wagon for my trunks？”
“I hain’t said I wanted to hev ye leave—” began Mr. Jacobus；but
Brede cut him short.
“Bring me your bill.”
“But，” remonstrated Jacobus， “ef ye ain’t—”
“Bring me your bill！” said Mr. Brede.
My wife and I went out for our morning’s walk. But itseemed to us， when we looked at “our view，” as if we couldonly see those invisible villages of which Brede had toldus—that other side of the ridges and rises of which we catchno glimpse from lofty hills or from the heights of human selfesteem.
We meant to stay out until the Bredes had taken theirdeparture； but we returned just in time to see Pete， the Jacobusdarkey， the blacker of boots， the brasher of coats， the generalhandy-man of the house， loading the Brede trunks on theJacobus wagon.
And， as we stepped upon the verandah， down came Mrs.
Brede， leaning on Mr. Brede’s arm， as though she were ill； andit was clear that she had been crying. There were heavy ringsabout her pretty black eyes.
My wife took a step toward her.
“Look at that dress， dear，” she whispered； “she never thoughtanything like this was going to happen when she put that on.”
It was a pretty， delicate， dainty dress， a graceful， narrowstripedaffair. Her hat was trimmed with a narrow-striped silkof the same colors—maroon and white—and in her hand sheheld a parasol that matched her dress.
“She’s had a new dress on twice a day，” said my wife， “butthat’s the prettiest yet. Oh， somehow—I’m awfully sorrythey’re going！”
But going they were. They moved toward the steps. Mrs.
Brede looked toward my wife， and my wife moved towardMrs. Brede. But the ostracized woman， as though she felt thedeep humiliation of her position， turned sharply away， andopened her parasol to shield her eyes from the sun. A showerof rice—a half-pound shower of rice—fell down over herpretty hat and her pretty dress， and fell in a spattering circleon the floor， outlining her skirts—and there it lay in a broad，uneven band， bright in the morning sun.
Mrs. Brede was in my wife’s arms， sobbing as if her youngheart would break.
“Oh， you poor， dear， silly children！” my wife cried， as Mrs.
Brede sobbed on her shoulder， “why didn’t you tell us？”
“W-W-W-We didn’t want to be t-t-taken for a b-b-b-b-bridalcouple，” sobbed Mrs. Brede； “and we d-d-didn’t dream whatawful lies we’d have to tell， and all the aw-awful mixed-upnessof it. Oh， dear， dear， dear！”
“Pete！” commanded Mr. Jacobus， “put back them trunks.
These folks stays here’s long’s they wants ter. Mr. Brede”—heheld out a large， hard hand—“I’d orter’ve known better，” hesaid. And my last doubt of Mr. Brede vanished as he shookthat grimy hand in manly fashion.
The two women were walking off toward “our view，” eachwith an arm about the other’s waist—touched by a suddensisterhood of sympathy.
“Gentlemen，” said Mr. Brede， addressing Jacobus， Biggle，the Major and me， “there is a hostelry down the street wherethey sell honest New Jersey beer. I recognize the obligations ofthe situation.”
We five men filed down the street. The two women wenttoward the pleasant slope where the sunlight gilded theforehead of the great hill. On Mr. Jacobus’s veranda lay aspattered circle of shining grains of rice. Two of Mr. Jacobus’spigeons flew down and picked up the shining grains， makinggrateful noises far down in their throats.
