She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless from pushing through the crowd, and in her happiness painful to look upon.  There was a light of wonder in her eyes and her lids trembled, and her otherwise wan little face was flushed.  She wore a muslin dress, conspicuously white, and a stiff little veil coming to her shoulders.  There were five pink paper roses twisted in the veil, and eleven bright green rose leaves.  There were new white cotton gloves upon her hands, and as she stood staring about her she twisted them together feverishly.  It was almost too much for her—­you could see the pain of too great emotion in her face, and all the tremor of her form.  She was so young—­not quite sixteen—­and small for her age, a mere child; and she had just been married—­and married to Jurgis,* (Pronounced Yoorghis) of all men, to Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the buttonhole of his new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the giant hands.

Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes with beetling brows, and thick black hair that curled in waves about his ears—­in short, they were one of those incongruous and impossible married couples with which Mother Nature so often wills to confound all prophets, before and after.  Jurgis could take up a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a far corner, frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his lips with his tongue each time before he could answer the congratulations of his friends.

Gradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and the guests—­a separation at least sufficiently complete for working purposes.  There was no time during the festivities which ensued when there were not groups of onlookers in the doorways and the corners; and if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked sufficiently hungry, a chair was offered him, and he was invited to the feast.  It was one of the laws of the veselija that no one goes hungry; and, while a rule made in the forests of Lithuania is hard to apply in the stockyards district of Chicago, with its quarter of a million inhabitants, still they did their best, and the children who ran in from the street, and even the dogs, went out again happier.  A charming informality was one of the characteristics of this celebration.  The men wore their hats, or, if they wished, they took them off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where they pleased, and moved as often as they pleased.  There were to be speeches and singing, but no one had to listen who did not care to; if he wished, meantime, to speak or sing himself, he was perfectly free.  The resulting medley of sound distracted no one, save possibly alone the babies, of which there were present a number equal to the total possessed by all the guests invited.  There was no other place for the babies to be, and so part of the preparations for the evening consisted of a collection of cribs and carriages in one corner.  In these the babies slept, three or four together, or wakened together, as the case might be.  Those who were still older, and could reach the tables, marched about munching contentedly at meat bones and bologna sausages.