Nanette and I were bridesmaids. I had a sheer white muslin frock and a wide white satin sash that came down to the very bottom of the skirt. There were no picture hats, but we each wore a wreath, and Sophie her mother's wedding veil, that then was folded up and laid away in a box for Nanette, who was free to have lovers now.
The wedding was at noon, and Mrs. Hayne gave a generous dinner, tables being set in both rooms. Sophie made a sweet and blushing bride, Homer was fine and manly. Dan made the speech of the occasion, and everybody drank to the health of the bride and groom and wished them children and grandchildren.
About mid-afternoon the procession started for home. Dan took Nanette, Ben and me in his two-seat wagon. There was to be an evening company, an "infair," as it was called, in the new house. The bedstead and bedding had been stored in the shed, the two rooms were decorated with vines and flowers and hanging candlesticks and lamps, so that in the evening the lights would be in no one's way.
Randolph Street was a lane then with but few houses, and out beyond stretched the prairie that was to be a compact city long before the century ended.
"Oh, I do hope you won't be lonesome way out here," I said to Sophie.
"Why, I shall have Homer, you know," opening her eyes wide as if she thought my wish inconsequent.
"But not in the daytime."
"Then I shall be busy about my work."
"Why I thought we had done sewing enough to last seven years," I said gayly.
"Well—there will be cooking for a hungry man, and I don't mean that Homer shall wish for his mother when meal time comes. And Mr. Hayne thinks it will be a good thing for Homer to bring his shop over here. Chicago is building up so fast, and it will have to stretch out every way. Then a good deal of the time he will be home to dinner. You and Nan and the girls will visit me—oh no, I shall not be lonesome."