Two sisters are exquisitely dressed in India muslin and antique lace—one in pale-blue and the other in pink.
Marguerite Verne is radiant in pearl-colored satin and ruchings of delicate pink azaleas.
Two younger girls are becomingly attired in cream lace and soft filmy crepe of the same shade.
Each maiden carries a bewitching basket of flowers, and imparts to the senses the most delightful effect. Indeed, it is seldom that historic Trinity ever witnessed a grander pageant within its sacred walls.
As the handsome and distinguished-looking bridegroom stood before the altar awaiting the entrance of his bride, it were almost sacrilege to utter a word deprecatory or otherwise.
Hubert Tracy supports his friend with an air of interest. He seems more impatient than the other, and has a look of ill-concealed uneasiness upon his slightly furrowed brow. He hears not the remarks of pretty maidens or dignified matrons, else the slight frown would have given place to a smile.
"Mr. Tracy is as handsome as the groom, mamma."
"Handsomer, my dear."
There was still a chance to ensnare the uncaged bird, and this fact was alone in the mind of the anxious mamma. But the entrance of the bridal party put an end to all talk concerning the sterner sex.
"Isn't she lovely?" "What a magnificent dress?" "She is so composed." "Really, Marguerite is as pretty as the bride." "Oh, indeed; fine feathers make fine birds." "If our girls could have all the money they want and nothing to do I bet you they would look better than any one of them." "Well, well. The world is ill divided." "Isn't Miss —— gorgeous in that lovely lace." "If we had some of the money that has been spent upon them dresses we wouldn't have to work any this summer."