Nobody did, however.  There was only one more big present, and that did not come.  Dakie Thayne knew better.  He gave her a magnificent copy of the Sistine Madonna, which his father had bought in Italy, and he wrote her that it was to be boxed and sent after her to her home. He did not say that it was magnificent; Leslie wrote that to us afterward, herself.  She said it made it seem as if one side of her little home had been broken through and let in heaven.

We were all sorry that Dakie could not be here.  They waited till September for Harry; “but who,” wrote Dakie, “could expect a military engagement to wait till all the stragglers could come up?  I have given my consent and my blessing; all I ask is that you will stop at West Point on your way.”  And that was what they were going to do.

Arabel Waite and Delia made all the wedding dresses.  But Mrs. Goldthwaite had her own carefully perfected patterns, adjusted to a line in every part.  Arabel meekly followed these, and saved her whole, fresh soul to pour out upon the flutings and finishing.

It was a morning wedding, and a pearl of days.  The summer had not gone from a single leaf.  Only the parch and the blaze were over, and beautiful dews had cooled away their fever.  The day-lilies were white among their broad, tender green leaves, and the tube-roses had come in blossom.  There were beds of red and white carnations, heavy with perfume.  The wide garden porch, into which double doors opened from the summer-room where they were married, showed these, among the grass-walks of the shady, secluded place, through its own splendid vista of trumpet-hung bignonia vines.

Everybody wanted to help at this wedding who could help.  Arabel Waite asked to be allowed to pour out coffee, or something.  So in a black silk gown, and a new white cap, she took charge of the little room up stairs, where were coffee and cakes and sandwiches for the friends who came from a distance by the train, and might be glad of something to eat at twelve o’clock.  Delia offered, “if she only might,” to assist in the dining-room, where the real wedding collation stood ready.  And even our Arctura came and asked if she might be “lent,” to “open doors, or anything.”  The regular maids of the house found labor so divided that it was a festival day all through.

Arctura looked as pretty a little waiting-damsel as might be seen, in her brown, two-skirted, best delaine dress, and her white, ruffled, muslin bib-apron, her nicely arranged hair, braided up high around her head and frizzed a little, gently, at the front,—­since why shouldn’t she, too, have a bit of the fashion?—­and tied round with a soft, simple white ribbon.  Delia had on a violet-and-white striped pique, quite new, with a ruffled apron also; and her ribbon was white, too, and she had a bunch of violets and green leaves upon her bosom.  We cared as much about their dress as they did about ours.  Barbara herself had pinched Arctura’s crimps, and tied the little white bow among-them.