needles. But the most daring and indefatigable of all was Clover, who never swerved in her determination that Katy’s “things” should be as nice and as pretty as love and industry combined could make them. Her ideas as to decoration soared far beyond Katy’s. She hem-stitched, she cat-stitched, she feather-stitched, she lace-stitched, she tucked and frilled and embroidered, and generally worked her fingers off; while the bride vainly protested that all this finery was quite unnecessary, and that simple hems and a little Hamburg edging would answer just as well. Clover merely repeated the words, “Hamburg edging!” with an accent of scorn, and went straight on in her elected way.
As each article received its last touch, and came from the laundry white and immaculate, it was folded to perfection, tied with a narrow blue or pale rose-colored ribbon, and laid aside in a sacred receptacle known as “The Wedding Bureau.” The handkerchiefs, grouped in dozens, were strewn with dried violets and rose-leaves to make them sweet. Lavender-bags and sachets of orris lay among the linen; and perfumes as of Araby were discernible whenever a drawer in the bureau was pulled out.
So the winter passed, and now spring was come; and the two girls on the doorsteps were talking about the wedding, which seemed very near now.
“Tell me just what sort of an affair you want it to be,” said Clover.
“It seems more your wedding than mine, you have worked so hard for it,” replied Katy. “You might give your ideas first.”
“My ideas are not very distinct. It’s only lately that I have begun to think about it at all, there has been so much to do. I’d like to have you have a beautiful dress and a great many wedding-presents and everything as pretty as can be, but not so many bridesmaids as Cecy, because there is always such a fuss in getting them nicely up the aisle in church and out again,—that is as far as I’ve got. But so long as you are pleased, and it goes off well, I don’t care exactly how it is managed.”
“Then, since you are in such an accommodating frame of mind, it seems a good time to break my views to you. Don’t be shocked, Clovy; but, do you know, I don’t want to be married in church at all, or to have any bridesmaids, or anything arranged for beforehand particularly. I should like things to be simple, and to just happen.”
“But, Katy, you can’t do it like that. It will all get into a snarl if there is no planning beforehand or rehearsals; it would be confused and horrid.”
“I don’t see why it would be confused if there were nothing to confuse. Please not be vexed; but I always have hated the ordinary kind of wedding, with its fuss and worry and so much of everything, and just like all the other weddings, and the bride looking tired to death, and nobody enjoying it a bit. I’d like mine to be different, and more—more—real. I don’t want any show or processing about, but just to have things nice and pretty, and all the people I love and who love me to come to it, and nothing cut and dried, and nobody tired, and to make it a sort of dear, loving occasion, with leisure to realize how dear it is and what it all means. Don’t you think it would really be nicer in that way?”
“Well, yes, as you put it, and ‘viewed from the higher standard,’ as Miss Inches would say, perhaps it would. Still, bridesmaids and all that are very pretty to look at; and folks will be surprised if you don’t have them.”
“Never mind folks,” remarked the irreverent Katy. “I don’t care a button for that argument. Yes; bridesmaids and going up the aisle in a long procession and all the rest are pretty to look at,—or were before they got to be so hackneyed. I can imagine the first bridal procession up the aisle of some early cathedral as having been perfectly beautiful. But nowadays, when the butcher and baker and candlestick-maker and everybody else do it just alike, the custom seems to me to have lost its charm. I never did enjoy having things exactly as every one else has them,—all going in the same direction like a flock of sheep. I would like my little wedding to be something especially my own. There was a poetical meaning in those old customs; but now that the custom has swallowed up so much of the meaning, it would please me better to retain the meaning and drop the custom.”
“I see what you mean,” said Clover, not quite convinced, but inclined as usual to admire Katy and think that whatever she meant must be right. “But tell me a little more. You mean to have a wedding-dress, don’t you?” doubtfully.
“Yes, indeed!”
“Have you thought what it shall be?”
“Do you recollect that beautiful white crape shawl of mamma’s which papa gave me two years ago? It has a lovely wreath of embroidery round it; and it came to me the other day that it would make a charming gown, with white surah or something for the under-dress. I should like that better than anything new, because mamma used to wear it, and it would seem as if she were here still, helping me to get ready. Don’t you think so?”
“It is a lovely idea,” said Clover, the ever-ready tears dimming her happy blue eyes for a moment, “and just like you. Yes, that shall be the dress,—dear mamma’s shawl. It will please papa too, I think, to have you choose it.”
“I thought perhaps it would,” said Katy, soberly. “Then I have a wide white watered sash which Aunt Izzy gave me, and I mean to have that worked into the dress somehow. I should like to wear something of hers too, for she was really good to us when we were little, and all that long time that I was ill; and we were not always good to her, I am afraid. Poor Aunt Izzy! What troublesome little wretches we were,—I most of all!”
“Were you? Somehow I never can recollect the time when you were not a born angel. I am afraid I don’t remember Aunt Izzy well. I just have a vague memory of somebody who was pretty strict and cross.”
“Ah, you never had a back, and needed to be waited on night and day, or you would recollect a great deal more than that. Cousin Helen helped me to appreciate what Aunt Izzy really was. By the way, one of the two things I have set my heart on is to have Cousin Helen come to my wedding.”
“It would be lovely if she could. Do you suppose there is any chance?”
“I wrote her week before last, but she hasn’t answered yet. Of course it depends on how she is; but the accounts from her have been pretty good this year.”
“What is the other thing you have set your heart on? You said ‘two.’”
“The other is that Rose Red shall be here, and little Rose. I wrote to her the other day also, and coaxed hard. Wouldn’t it be too enchanting? You know how we have always longed to have her in Burnet; and if she could come now it would make everything twice as pleasant.”
“Katy, what an enchanting thought!” cried Clover, who had not seen Rose since they all left Hillsover. “It would be the greatest lark that ever was to have the Roses. When do you suppose we shall hear? I can hardly wait, I am in such a hurry to have her say ‘Yes.’”
“But suppose she says ‘No’?”
“I won’t think of such a possibility. Now go on. I suppose your principles don’t preclude a wedding-cake?”
“On the contrary, they include a great deal of wedding-cake. I want to send a box to everybody in Burnet,—all the poor people, I mean, and the old people and the children at the Home and those forlorn creatures at the poor-house and all papa’s patients.”
“But, Katy, that will cost a lot,” objected the thrifty Clover.
“I know it; so we must do it in the cheapest way, and make the cake ourselves. I have Aunt Izzy’s recipe, which is a very good one; and if we all take hold, it won’t be such an immense piece of work. Debby has quantities of raisins stoned already. She has been doing them in the evenings a few at a time for the last month. Mrs. Ashe knows a factory where you can get the little white boxes for ten dollars a thousand, and I have commissioned her to send for five hundred.”
“Five hundred! What an immense quantity!”
“Yes; but there are all the Hillsover girls to be remembered, and all our kith and kin, and everybody