Allen sat beside his bride on the cretonne-covered skirt box. And after all, he did not look at her, but only at her warm left hand in his.
"It is the funniest thing," he said, "when I see you comin' in the parlour lookin' so differ'nt, I'm blessed if I wasn't afraid of you. What do you think of that?"
"You's afraid of my dress," Chris told him, laughing, "not me. You use' to be afraid of me when we's first engaged, but you ain't now. It's me. I feel afraid of you—Allen. You're—differ'nt."
He laughed tenderly, confidently.
"Boo!" he said. "Now are you?"
"Yes," she answered seriously; "now."
"Chris!" he cried boyishly, "we're married! We're goin' to keep house."
"Oh," she said, "Allen! Think of the fun of puttin' the presents in the house—the dishes, and the glass, and the ornaments. There won't be another dinin' room in town like ours. Sideboard an' plate rail, an' the rug not tacked down."
Their thoughts flew to the little house, furnished and waiting, down the snowy street by the Triangle park: their house.