"Still, I am sorry for him!" said Miss Rejoice, through the window.
(Miss Rejoice was always sorry for wrongdoers, much sorrier than for
the righteous who suffered. _They_ would be sure to get good out of
it, she said, but the poor sinners generally didn't know how.) "What
did he do, poor soul?"

"He went away!" replied the fiddler. "Pegrum wouldn't hold him; and
the other lad was a good shot, and went about with a shot-gun. But I
was going to tell you about the wedding."

"Of course!" cried Melody. "What did the bride wear? That is the most
important part."

De Arthenay cleared his throat, and looked grave. He always made a
point of remembering the dresses at weddings, and was proud of the
accomplishment,--a rare one in his sex.

"Miss Andrews--I beg her pardon, Mrs. Nelson--had on a white muslin
gown, made quite full, with three ruffles round the skirt. There was
lace round the neck, but I cannot tell you what kind, except that it
was very soft and fine. She had white roses on the front of her gown,
and in her hair, and pink ones in her cheeks; her eyes were like brown
diamonds, and she had little white satin slippers, for all the world
like Cinderella. They were a present from her Grandmother Anstey, over
at Bow Mills. Her other grandmother, Mrs. Bowen, gave her the dress,
so her father and mother could lay out all they wanted to on the
supper; and a handsome supper it was. Then after supper they danced.
It would have done your heart good, Miss Vesta, to see that little
bride dance. Ah! she is a pretty creature. There was another young
woman, too, who played the piano. Kate, they called her, but I don't