uietly amusing herself with "pooring" the silvery dress,
smelling the flowers and staring at the Bishop.

After this, all prospered. The gloves came smoothly off, the rings went
smoothly on; no one cried but Prue, no one laughed but Tilly; the brides
were admired, the grooms envied; the service pronounced impressive, and
when it ended, a tumult of congratulations arose.

Sylvia always had a very confused idea of what happened during the next
hour. She remembered being kissed till her cheeks burned, and shaken
hands with till her fingers tingled; bowing in answer to toasts, and
forgetting to reply when addressed by the new name; trying to eat and
drink, and discovering that everything tasted of wedding cake; finding
herself up stairs hurrying on her travelling dress, then down stairs
saying good by; and when her father embraced her last of all, suddenly
realizing with a pang, that she was married and going away, never to be
little Sylvia any more.

Prue _was_ gratified to her heart's content, for, when the two bridal
carriages had vanished with handkerchiefs flying from their windows, in
answer to the white whirlwind on the lawn, Mrs. Grundy, with an
approving smile on her aristocratic countenance, pronounced this the
most charming affair of the season.

CHAPTER XIII.

SYLVIA'S HONEYMOON.

It began with a pleasant journey. Day after day they loitered along
country roads that led them through many scenes of summer beauty;
pausing at old-fashioned inns and wayside farmhouses, or gipsying at
noon in some green nook where their four-footed comrades dined off their
tablecloth while they made merry over the less simple fare their last
hostess had provided for them. When the scenery was uninteresting, as
was sometimes the case, for Nature will not disturb her domestic
arrangements for any bridal pair, one or the other read aloud, or both
sang, while conversation was a never-failing pastime and silence had
charms which they could enjoy. Sometimes they walked a mile or two, ran
down a hillside, rustled through a grain field, strolled into an
orchard, or feasted from fruitful hedges by the way, as care-free as the
squirrels on the wall, or the jolly brown bees lunching at the sign of
"The Clover-top." They made friends with sheep in meadows, cows at the
brook, travellers morose or bland, farmers full of a sturdy sense that
made their chat as wholesome as the mould they delved in; school
children barefooted and blith