I think that this attitude of Calliope's must have tranquillized the wildest. In spite of the reality of the tragedy, it was no time at all until, having put the pink rose in Hannah's hair, anyway, Calliope and I led the little bride downstairs. For was there not a reality of happiness down there?
"After all, Henry was marrying you and not the dress, you know," Calliope reminded her on the landing.
"That's what he keeps a-sayin'," consented Hannah with a wan little smile, "but oh, ma'am—" she added, for Hannah was all feminine.
And when the "I will" had been said, I loved the little creature for taking Grandma Hawley in her arms.
"Did they tell you what I done?" the old woman questioned anxiously when Hannah kissed her. "I was savin' it to tell you, an' it went out o' my head. An' I dunno—did you know what I done?" she persisted.
But the others crowded forward with congratulation and, as was their fashion, with teasing; and presently I think that even the rosy gown was forgotten in Hannah's delight over her unexpected gifts. The graniteware, the sweeper, the rug with the running dog—after all, was ever any one so blessed?
And as I watched them—Hannah and her great, good-looking adoring giant—I who, like Calliope, love a surprise, caught a certain plan by its shining wings and held it close. They say that when one does this such wings bear one away—and so it proved.
I found my chance and whispered my plan to Hannah, half for the pastime of seeing the quickening color in her cheek and the light in her eyes. Then I told the giant, chiefly for the sake of noting how some mischievous god smote him with a plague of blushes. And they both consented—and that is the way when one clings to the wings of a plan.
So it came about that in the happy bustle of the parting, as Hannah in her "regular brown Sunday suit" went away on Henry's arm, they two and I exchanged glances of pleasant significance. Then, when every one had gone, I turned to Calliope with authority.