Dear Jones: I mean it is foolish. Don’t let us—
Baby Van Rensselaer: Don’t let us see each other again!
VII.
THE SEVENTH CONVERSATION.
Thursday, February 14, 1884.
As the soft, low notes of the wedding-march from “Lohengrin” fell gently from the organ-loft over the entrance of Grace Church, the quartet of able-bodied ushers passed up the centre aisle and parted the white ribbons—a silken barrier which they had gallantly defended for an hour in a vain effort to keep the common herd of acquaintance separate from the chosen many of the family. Behind them came two pretty little girls, strewing the aisle with white flowers from their aprons. The four bridesmaids, two abreast, passed up the aisle after the little girls, proud in their reflected glory. Then came the bride, leaning on Judge Gillespie’s arm, and radiant with youth and beauty and happiness. As the procession drew near the chancel-rail, the groom came from the vestry and advanced to meet her, accompanied by his best man, Uncle Larry, who relieved him of his hat and overcoat, the which he would dextrously return to him when the happy couple should leave the church man and wife. And in due time the Bishop asked, “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife?”
Dear Jones: I will.
The Bishop asked again, “Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband?”
Baby Van Rensselaer: I will.