There was Arabella Satterlee's—she shapes her backs like the top of a coffin, or sometimes they remind me more of a kite; and Sallie Ann Hodd's—she makes 'em square; and old Mrs. Tucker's—you can always tell hers by the way the armholes draw; she makes the minister's wife's. But they'd every one of 'em done their level best and I was proud of 'em.
Well, when the organ—it had been playin' low and soft all the time—changed off into the weddin' march and the bridesmaids, eight of 'em, marched up the aisle behind the eight yushers, I tell you, Miss Halliday, it was a sight!
They was all in pink gauzy stuff—I happened to feel one of 'em as she went by but I couldn't tell what 'twas made of; it seemed dreadful flimsy—and big flat hats all made of roses on their heads, and carryin' bunches pf long-stemmed roses so big that they had to hold 'em in their arms like young babes.
Eleanor came behind 'em all, walkin' with her father. He always was a small-built man, and with her long trail and her veil spreadin' out so, why, I declare, you couldn't hardly see him.
I whispered to John that they looked more as if Eleanor was goin' to give her pa away than him her.
Eleanor's dress was elegant, only awful plain. It was made in New York at Greenleaf's. I know, because when I was upstairs lookin' for my sunshade—I told you about that, didn't I?—I happened to get into Eleanor's room by mistake, and there was the box it came in right on the bed before my eyes.
Well, when they was all past, I kept lookin' round me for the groom and wonderin' how I had come to miss him, when all at once John nudged me, and there he was right in front of me and the minister beginnin' to marry 'em, and where he had sprung from I can't tell you this livin' minute!
Came in from the vestry, did he? Well, now, I never would have thought of that!
Well, when they was most married the most ridiculous thing happened.
You see, Eleanor's father in steppin' back after givin' her away had put his foot right down on her trail and never noticed, and when it came time for the prayer Eleanor pulled and pulled—they was to kneel down on two big white satin cushions in front of 'em—but her pa never budged—just stood there with his eyes shut and his head bowed as devout as anything—and before Eleanor could stop him, her husband—he was most her husband, anyway—had kneeled right down on to the cushion, with his eyes shut, too, I suppose, and the minister had to pray over 'em that way. I could see Eleanor's shoulders shakin' under her veil, and of course it was ridiculous if it hadn't been so solemn.