The last ceremony left to be performed was, as usual, the signing
of the marriage register. In the confusion of the moment (and in
the absence of any information to guide me) I committed a
mistake--ominous, in my aunt Starkweather's opinion, of evil to
come. I signed my married instead of my maiden name.

"What!" cried my uncle, in his loudest and cheeriest tones, "you
have forgotten your own name already? Well, well! let us hope you
will never repent parting with it so readily. Try again,
Valeria--try again."

With trembling fingers I struck the pen through my first effort,
and wrote my maiden name, very badly indeed, as follows:

Valeria Brinton

When it came to my husband's turn I noticed, with surprise, that
his hand trembled too, and that he produced a very poor specimen
of his customary signature:

Eustace Woodville

My aunt, on being requested to sign, complied under protest. "A
bad beginning!" she said, pointing to my first unfortunate
signature with the feather end of her pen. "I hope, my dear, you
may not live to regret it."

Even then, in the days of my ignorance and my innocence, that
curious outbreak of my aunt's superstition produced a certain