When the time of birds and blossoms had come again, and picnics and
excursions were revived, Paulina said to her dearest friend:

"What do you think that delightful man has gotten up now? Mr.
Monteith, I mean. He is to have a little breakfast party in the
country--just a few of us, you know. We are to go in carriages. I
dare say you'll be invited, too. Isn't it a charming novelty? I
presume it is to an old uncle and aunt of his, you know," and the
butterfly girl tripped on without waiting for replies. Accordingly,
one balmy June morning, a merry company alighted at "The Pines," and
were ushered into a fairy-like room.

Green vines crept and twined along the white walls, drooping over
doors and windows, and trailing down the muslin curtains as if they
grew there. The flowers were not made into stiff bouquets, but here
and there was a handful of roses or sweet-scented violets. The old
fireplace lost itself in callas, ferns, and ivies, while the mantel
blossomed out into tube-roses and mosses. One of the recesses formed
by the large chimney was turned into a leafy bower, the bells of
white lilies fringing the green archway.

"Beautiful!" "Exquisite!" murmured the guests. "I verily believe we
have come to a wedding," said one.

In another moment Mr. Monteith and his bride stood in the niche under
the lilies, and the minister spoke the mystic words that declared
them "no more twain, but one."

Edna was not glittering in satin and jewels. Her dress was apparently