"What was it like?" asked Isabel.
"It was a ghastly combination of black and white feathers and red flowers," replied Joanna; "and resembled a young person's funeral passing through a field of poppies; it really was a weird sight!"
"Thine own friend and thy father's friend forsake not," said Mr. Seaton reprovingly, "and Miss Dallicot is a dear and valued friend of mine."
"I am not forsaking her, father; I am only describing her head-gear."
Mr. Seaton smiled as he shook his head. "A man that hath friends must show himself friendly; and ridicule and friendliness hardly seem to me compatible, my child."
"Wait till you see the bonnet," persisted Joanna.
"I, for one, am looking forward to the vision," exclaimed Paul. "When she comes into chapel on Sunday, I shall begin to sing 'The morning flowers display their sweets'."
"Did I tell you that she tumbled down coming into chapel last Sunday?" said Joanna.
"No—did she? I wish I'd been there to see," cried the unregenerate Paul.
"Yes; she caught her foot on the mat of the door, staggered up the aisle with increasing speed at every step, and finally fell—an inert mass—at the pulpit steps, while her parasol and pocket-handkerchief and hymn-book flew all over the chapel like leaves in autumn."