“Yes, dear, sometime and somewhere we hope there will be a wedding. It isn’t quite time yet to talk much about it. Very soon you will know.”
Edith looked from her mother to her aunt, her eyes full of questions. But before she had time to put the questions into words, Aunt Vi inquired about her blue sewing-silk. Too bad to have to stop and explain all that; for afterwards Edith couldn’t find out the least thing about the wedding,—whose it was, or where or when. Papa pretended that it was very likely some Indians from Arizona.
“O papa! now you know it’s not Indians! And it’s nobody in Arizona either. The wedding belongs right here in California.”
“Indeed! And possibly in this very house. Who knows?”
Edith felt that she was being trifled with. Who was there in this house to be married but papa and mamma?
And they had been married already.
Then one day somebody said Mr. Henry Sanford was coming home from Washington.
“Oh, now I know!” cried Edith. “It’s Mr. Sanford and Aunt Vi; it’s Mr. Sanford and Aunt Vi!”
She was right. They were to be married at Christmas, just two weeks ahead.
“If Lucy doesn’t have whooping-cough, you mean?” said Edith. “If she does, I s’pose you’ll have to put off the wedding?”