On Sunday afternoon Athalie went to pay visits in turn to all her school friends. It is one of the bride's privileges to pay these visits without her mother; they have so much to say to each other the last time in all their girlhood.
Frau Sophie was delighted to be allowed to stay at home one day in the year, and neither pay nor receive calls—not to act as chaperon to her daughter and listen to conversation in German, of which she did not understand a word. She could remain at home and think of her happy parlor-maid times—the days when on an idle Sunday like this she could fill her apron with ears of Indian corn, and sit down on the bench before the door picking out the grains one by one and cracking them, while she chatted and gossiped with her companions. To-day the leisure time and the boiled ears of maize were at hand, but the friends and the gossip on the bench were wanting. Frau Sophie had allowed the maid-servants and the cook to go out, that she might have the kitchen to herself; for you can not eat corn in the parlor on account of the husks which get strewn about. In the end she found suitable company. Timéa came creeping up to her. She also had no work to do. The embroidery was finished, and the dress had gone to the needle-woman, who would send it home at the last moment. Timéa was quite suited to the kitchen bench beside Frau Sophie. They were both only on sufferance in the house. The difference was that Timéa felt herself a lady, though every one looked on her as a servant; while all the world knew that Frau Sophie was the mistress of the house, and yet she felt like a servant. So Timéa perched herself on the little bench near Frau Sophie, as the nursery-maid and the cook do after quarreling all the week, when they make it up on Sunday and have a chat together.
Only three days and then the marriage!
Timéa looked cautiously round to see if any listeners were near to overhear, and then in a low voice asked, "Mamma Sophie, do tell me what is a wedding like?"
Frau Sophie drew her shoulders up and shook like a person who laughs internally, looking with half-shut eyes at the inquiring child. With the malicious delight old servants take in deceiving young ones, she encouraged the laughable simplicity of the girl. "Yes, Timéa," in the important tone of a story-teller, "that is a wonderful sight. You will see it."
"I tried once to listen at the church door," confessed Timéa, frankly; "I had crept in when a wedding was going on, but all I could see was that the bride and bridegroom stood before a lovely golden shrine."
"That was the altar."
"Then a naughty boy saw me and drove me away, calling out, 'Be off, you Turkish brat!' Then I ran away."
"You must know," began Sophie, while she took out a grain at a time and put them in her mouth, "that then comes the venerable pope, with a golden cap on his head, on his shoulders a robe of rustling silk worked with gold, and carrying a great book with clasps in his hand. He reads and sings most beautifully, and then the bridal pair kneel on the steps of the altar. The pope asks them both whether they love each other."
"And are they obliged to answer?"