“They say 'Happy is the bride that the sun shines on,'” she whispered softly to an English sparrow that cocked his eye at her from a neighboring tree branch. “As if a bride wouldn't be happy, sun or no sun,” she scoffed tenderly, as she turned to go down-stairs.
As it happens, however, tingling blood and sparkling eyes are a matter of more than weather, or even weddings, as was proved a little later when the telephone bell rang.
Kate answered the ring.
“Hullo, is that you, Kate?” called a despairing voice.
“Yes. Good morning, Bertram. Isn't this a fine day for the wedding?”
“Fine! Oh, yes, I suppose so, though I must confess I haven't noticed it—and you wouldn't, if you had a lunatic on your hands.”
“A lunatic!”
“Yes. Maybe you have, though. Is Marie rampaging around the house like a wild creature, and asking ten questions and making twenty threats to the minute?”
“Certainly not! Don't be absurd, Bertram. What do you mean?”
“See here, Kate, that show comes off at twelve sharp, doesn't it?”