“No, I will be married in my uniform as David is,” she answered with a look Letty long remembered.
“Mr. Power has come,” she said softly a few minutes later, with an anxious glance at the clock.
“Go dear, I’ll come directly. But first”—and Christie held her friend close a moment, kissed her tenderly, and whispered in a broken voice: “Remember, I don’t take his heart from you, I only share it with my sister and my mother.”
“I’m glad to give him to you, Christie; for now I feel as if I had partly paid the great debt I’ve owed so long,” answered Letty through her tears.
Then she went away, and Christie soon followed, looking very like a Quaker bride in her gray gown with no ornament but delicate frills at neck and wrist, and the roses in her bosom.
“No bridal white, dear?” said David, going to her.
“Only this,” and she touched the flowers, adding with her hand on the blue coat sleeve that embraced her: “I want to consecrate my uniform as you do yours by being married in it. Isn’t it fitter for a soldier’s wife than lace and silk at such a time as this?”
“Much fitter: I like it; and I find you beautiful, my Christie,” whispered David, as she put one of her roses in his button-hole.
“Then I’m satisfied.”
“Mr. Power is waiting: are you ready, love?”