“Well, I told her the presents was all locked up; and if she was a clever, good child, and went to school regular, and got her learnin’ good, I’d certain show ’em to her some time.  I told her,” added Polly, whisperingly, and holding her hand over her mouth to keep from loud laughter,—­“I told her I’d seen a couple on ’em done up in beautiful silver paper!”

The bell rang at last, and we all sprang as with an electric shock.  It was old Mr. Price, led in reverently by Mr. Sampson.  Tea was ready; so we all sat down to it.

I don’t know what other people think of, when they are going to be married,—­I mean at the moment.  Books are eloquent on the subject.  For my part.  I must confess, I thought of nothing.  And let that encourage the next bride, who will imagine herself a dunce, because she isn’t thinking of something fine and solemn.  Perhaps I had so many ideas pressing in, in all directions, that the mind itself couldn’t act.  Be it as it may, I stood as if stupefied,—­while old Mr. Price talked and prayed, it seemed, an age.  I was roused, however, and glad enough I wasn’t in church, when he called out,—­

“Ameriky! do you take this woman for your wedded wife?” and still more rejoiced when he added, sternly,—­

“Delphiny!” (using the long i,) “do you take Ameriky?”

We both said “Yes.”  And then he commended us affectionately and reverently to the protection and love of Him who had himself come to a wedding.  He then came to a close, to Polly’s delight, who said she “had expected nothin’ but what the old gentleman would hold on an hour, —­missionaries to China, and all.”

Old Mr. Price took a piece of cake and a full glass of wine, and wished us joy.  He was fast passing away, and with him the old-class ministers, now only traditional, who drank their half-mug of flip at funerals, went to balls to look benignantly on the scene of pleasure, came home at ten o’clock to write “the improvement” to their Sunday’s sermon, took the other half-mug, and went to bed peaceably and in charity with the whole parish.  They have gone, with the stagecoaches and country-newspapers; and the places that knew them will know them no more.

Betsy Ann, who was mercifully admitted to the wedding, pronounced it without hesitation the “flattest thing she ever see,”—­and was straightway dismissed by Polly, with an extra frosted cake, and a charge to “get along home with herself.”  Then Mr. Sampson walked slowly home with Mr. Price, and Laura and myself were left looking at each other.

“Delphiny!” said Laura.

“Ameriky!” said I.

“Well,—­it’s over now.  If you had happened to be Mrs. Conant’s daughter, you know, your name would have been Keren-happuch!”

“On the whole, I am glad it wasn’t in church,” said I.

Mr. Sampson returned before we had finished talking of that.  And then Laura, said, suddenly,—­