overhanging mustache are prematurely streaked with gray. He has
the color in the face which my face wants, and the firmness in
his figure which my figure wants. He looks at me with the
tenderest and gentlest eyes (of a light brown) that I ever saw in
the countenance of a man. His smile is rare and sweet; his
manner, perfectly quiet and retiring, has yet a latent
persuasiveness in it which is (to women) irresistibly winning. He
just halts a little in his walk, from the effect of an injury
received in past years, when he was a soldier serving in India,
and he carries a thick bamboo cane, with a curious crutch handle
(an old favorite), to help himself along whenever he gets on his
feet, in doors or out. With this one little drawback (if it is a
drawback), there is nothing infirm or old or awkward about him;
his slight limp when he walks has (perhaps to my partial eyes) a
certain quaint grace of its own, which is pleasanter to see than
the unrestrained activity of other men. And last and best of all,
I love him! I love him! I love him! And there is an end of my
portrait of my husband on our wedding-day.

The glass has told me all I want to know. We leave the vestry at
last.

The sky, cloudy since the morning, has darkened while we have
been in the church, and the rain is beginning to fall heavily.
The idlers outside stare at us grimly under their umbrellas as we
pass through their ranks and hasten into our carriage. No
cheering; no sunshine; no flowers strewn in our path; no grand
breakfast; no genial speeches; no bridesmaids; no fathers or
mother's blessing. A dreary wedding--there is no denying it--and
(if Aunt Starkweather is right) a bad beginning as well!