“Oh, I’d be certain to have my wedding dress made out of the chests, I should think,” I said, perfectly delighted with the idea. “Hasn’t grandmother saved her wedding dress?”
“Of course she has, and her wedding chemise and slippers and veil and fan.”
“Oh,” I cried, “just let me lie still and think about it awhile. Isn’t it like a fairy tale?”
So I did. I lay still quite a while looking at the fire, and wondering if it could be true that I, Azalea Knox, who had believed myself to be little more than a waif, was coming into a home all mellow and beautiful with old customs and memories and loves—and hates, too, I suppose. Then I seemed to feel that something was wrong, and looking up I saw my new Uncle David frowning at me—distinctly frowning.
So I said:
“Why do you frown, Uncle David?”
And he said:
“Why are you so interested in bridal dresses?”
“Aren’t all girls interested in bridal dresses?”
“Not when they are infants like yourself, miss.”