“I’ll try,” was all his answer to her appeal; then proved that he meant it by adding, with his lips against her cheek: “I must go to mother and Letty. We leave them behind, and they must be comforted.”
He went, and Christie vanished to make ready for her wedding, conscious, in spite of her exalted state of mind, that every thing was very hurried, sad, and strange, and very different from the happy day she had so often planned.
“No matter, we are ‘well on’t for love,’ and that is all we really need,” she thought, recalling with a smile Mrs. Wilkins’s advice.
“David sends you these, dear. Can I help in any way?” asked Letty, coming with a cluster of lovely white roses in her hand, and a world of affection in her eyes.
“I thought he’d give me violets,” and a shadow came over Christie’s face.
“But they are mourning flowers, you know.”
“Not to me. The roses are, for they remind me of poor Helen, and the first work I did with David was arranging flowers like these for a dead baby’s little coffin.”
“My dearest Christie, don’t be superstitious: all brides wear roses, and Davy thought you’d like them,” said Letty, troubled at her words.
“Then I’ll wear them, and I won’t have fancies if I can help it. But I think few brides dress with a braver, happier heart than mine, though I do choose a sober wedding-gown,” answered Christie, smiling again, as she took from a half-packed trunk her new hospital suit of soft, gray, woollen stuff.
“Won’t you wear the pretty silvery silk we like so well?” asked Letty timidly, for something in Christie’s face and manner impressed her very much.