“But it will rain,” mourned Charlotta, creeping into the room, a figure of fun, with her many braids wound about her head, the ends, tied up with white thread, sticking out in all directions. “It’ll hold off till the last minute and then pour cats and dogs. And all the folks will get sopping . . . and track mud all over the house . . . and they won’t be able to be married under the honeysuckle . . . and it’s awful unlucky for no sun to shine on a bride, say what you will, Miss Shirley, ma’am. I knew things were going too well to last.”
Charlotta the Fourth seemed certainly to have borrowed a leaf out of Miss Eliza Andrews’ book.
It did not rain, though it kept on looking as if it meant to. By noon the rooms were decorated, the table beautifully laid; and upstairs was waiting a bride, “adorned for her husband.”
“You do look sweet,” said Anne rapturously.
“Lovely,” echoed Diana.
“Everything’s ready, Miss Shirley, ma’am, and nothing dreadful has happened yet,” was Charlotta’s cheerful statement as she betook herself to her little back room to dress. Out came all the braids; the resultant rampant crinkliness was plaited into two tails and tied, not with two bows alone, but with four, of brand-new ribbon, brightly blue. The two upper bows rather gave the impression of overgrown wings sprouting from Charlotta’s neck, somewhat after the fashion of Raphael’s cherubs. But Charlotta the Fourth thought them very beautiful, and after she had
