“December 7, by the Rev. Dr. ——, Major Thomas Somers, of the —th United States Infantry, to Miss Lilian Ashford, daughter of Richard C. Ashford, Esq., of this city. (No Cards.)”
No. — Rutland Street was brilliantly illuminated, as the stars broke forth from the storm clouds of that snowy Thanksgiving evening. There was a select assemblage of gentlemen, civil and military, and of ladies, young and old, from the matrons in sober black, to the maidens decked in colors appropriate to the joyous occasion. “Fighting Joe” had been cordially invited, but a severe illness alone prevented his attendance.
Half an hour before the time appointed for the ceremony, a carriage stopped at the door, from which stepped a tall gentleman, dressed in an elegant new uniform, on the shoulder-straps of which glistened the silver leaves that indicated his rank. With nervous energy he dashed up the steps, and endangered the bell wire by the desperate pull he gave. His summons was promptly answered by a colored gentleman in white cotton gloves.
“Major Somers,” said the gentleman, sententiously.
“The major is engaged just now, sir, and cannot be seen,” replied the waiter.
“Can’t be seen!” exclaimed the arrival.
“Not just now, sir. Walk in, if you please, sir.”
“Tell him Colonel De Banyan is here; and if that don’t fetch him, say ‘Magenta’ to him.”
The waiter went up stairs to the front room, where the bride and groom and their more intimate friends were assembled.
“Colonel De Banyan, from Magenta, sir, is—”