She had suffered a fashionable modiste to take her measure once, and after that Mrs. Arnold was forced to give her carte blanche in the whole matter of taste, expense and arrangement. Bonnibel would dictate nothing in the preparation of those hated garments in which she was to be sacrificed.
It was all over now. She stood in the hallway of the splendid home that had sheltered her childhood, waiting for the carriage that would bear her away on her honey-moon trip. She was leaving that dear home forever; a quick tear sprang to her eyes as the servants crowded around her with their humble, sorrowful adieux.
Lucy was to go with her, but the others, many of whom had been valued domestics in the house for years, she might never see again.
They all loved her, and their farewells and good wishes were the most fervent and heart-felt she had ever received.
Colonel Carlyle, though a little impatient, was pleased at these humble manifestations and distributed gratuities among them with a liberal hand. He wondered a little at the tears that crowded into the blue eyes of his girl-wife. He did not know that she was thinking of the dear uncle with whom she had spent so many hours beneath this roof. Ah, those happy days! How far they lay behind her now in the green land of memory!
"Come, dearest," he said, drawing her small hand through his arm and leading her away, "you must not dim those bright eyes with tears."
He led her down the steps, placed her in the carriage that was gay with wedding favors, and Mrs. Arnold and Felise airily kissed the tips of their fingers to them. Janet threw an old slipper after the carriage for good luck, and then Bonnibel was whirled away to the new life that lay before her.
"I came very near being the bride in that carriage myself," said Felise, turning away from the drawing-room window. "But 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'"
The tone was light, almost laughing; but Mrs. Arnold, turning to look at her, read a different story in her eyes.