"Effort, and expectation and desire—
And something evermore about to be."
We cherish the sweet nothings of a happy time as we preserve dried rose-leaves. Mayhap through their faint fragrance we may dream the rose!
It was a busy time as well as a happy time. I was helping Mrs. William C. Rives build a church; I was hemstitching all the ruffles for Thomasia Woodson's trousseau; I was playing waltzes, ad infinitum, at the house-parties in Charlotte—the Henrys and Carringtons—and singing campaign songs, to the great delight of my dear grandfather, in honor of my old friend, Henry Clay, whom we were once more trying to make our President:—
"Get out o' the way, you're all unlucky;
Clear the track for old Kentucky!"
(And just here I wish to record the fact that only once in all my life did my old grandfather ever reprove me. I had committed a flagrant act of lèse majestie. I had put a nightcap on the bust of Patrick Henry!)
But my dear aunt's invitations, written on paper embossed with an orange-blossom and tied with white satin ribbon, were now issued for my wedding.
I had begun my acquaintance with the young man known now as "the General," or "the Judge," by beseeching God to take care of him. According to my Presbyterian training, I was taught that every prayer must be followed by efforts for its fulfilment. It was clearly my duty "to take care of him." He needed it.