"Begin to tell now, Rosin," she said. "Tell us all that you know."
"Tell you everything," he repeated thoughtfully. "Not all, little Melody. I've seen some things that you wouldn't like to hear about,—things that would grieve your tender heart more than a little. We will not talk about those; but I have seen bright things too, sure enough. Why, only day before yesterday I was at a wedding, over in Pegrum; a pretty wedding it was too. You remember Myra Bassett, Miss Vesta?"
"To be sure I do," replied Miss Vesta. "She married John Andrews, her father's second cousin once removed. Don't tell me that Myra has a daughter old enough to be married: Or is it a son? either way, it is ridiculous."
"A daughter!" said the old man,—"the prettiest girl in Pegrum. Like a ripe chestnut, more than anything. Two lads were in love with her; there may have been a dozen, but these two I know about. One of them—I'll name no names, 'tis kinder not—found that she wanted to marry a hero (what girl does not?), so he thought he would try his hand at heroism. There was a picnic this spring, and he hired a boy (or so the boy says—it may be wicked gossip) to upset the boat she was in, so that he, the lover, might save her life. But, lo and behold! he was taken with a cramp in the water, and was almost drowned, and the second lover jumped in, and saved them both. So she married the second (whom she had liked all along), and then the boy told his story."
"Miserable sneak!" ejaculated Miss Vesta. "To risk the life of the woman he pretended to love, just to show himself off."
"Still, I am sorry for him!" said Miss Rejoice, through the window. (Miss Rejoice was always sorry for wrongdoers, much sorrier than for the righteous who suffered. They would be sure to get good out of it, she said, but the poor sinners generally didn't know how.) "What did he do, poor soul?"
"He went away!" replied the fiddler. "Pegrum wouldn't hold him; and the other lad was a good shot, and went about with a shot-gun. But I was going to tell you about the wedding."
"Of course!" cried Melody. "What did the bride wear? That is the most important part."
De Arthenay cleared his throat, and looked grave. He always made a point of remembering the dresses at weddings, and was proud of the accomplishment,—a rare one in his sex.
"Miss Andrews—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Nelson—had on a white muslin gown, made quite full, with three ruffles round the skirt. There was lace round the neck, but I cannot tell you what kind, except that it was very soft and fine. She had white roses on the front of her gown, and in her hair, and pink ones in her cheeks; her eyes were like brown diamonds, and she had little white satin slippers, for all the world like Cinderella. They were a present from her Grandmother Anstey, over at Bow Mills. Her other grandmother, Mrs. Bowen, gave her the dress, so her father and mother could lay out all they wanted to on the supper; and a handsome supper it was. Then after supper they danced. It would have done your heart good, Miss Vesta, to see that little bride dance. Ah! she is a pretty creature. There was another young woman, too, who played the piano. Kate, they called her, but I don't know what her other name was. Anyway, she had an eye like black lightning stirred up with a laugh, and a voice like the 'Fisherman's Hornpipe.'"