It was the evening before the wedding-day. The sisters had returned three months before, and George had been some time at home, and was soon to be ordained as pastor over the church where for generations his fathers had worshiped. Having assisted Lizzy in arranging the bridal paraphernalia for to-morrow morning’s ceremony, I went down stairs to bid Hattie good-night before I went home. She was standing by the window, with her head leaning on Fred’s shoulder. One of his arms was around her, and with the other he was holding back the curtain that the brilliant moonlight might fall full on the beautiful face that was raised to his with an expression of confiding affection. A sudden recollection flashed upon my mind, and crossing the room, I threw my arms around them as they stood together, and said to my brother, “Fred, have you found out what there is to like in Hattie Atherton?”
“I have found,” replied Fred, drawing her fondly to his heart, “that there is every thing in her to like except her name; she will change that to-morrow, and then she will be perfect.”
TO MARY.
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BY LUCY CABELL.
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’Twere vain, dear Mary, to attempt
To sound your praise in rhyme;