“Well, I ain’t goin’ to put none of ’em away,” declared Esther.  “I like ornaments.”

“Glad you do; you’ve got enough of ’em, land knows. Ornaments!” The very word seemed to incense her.  “I guess you’ll find there’s something needed besides ornaments when you come right down to livin’.  For one thing, you’re awful short of dishes and bedding, and you can’t ever have no company—­unless,” she added, with withering sarcasm, “you give ’em little vases to drink out of, and put ’em to bed under a picture-drape, with a pin-cushion or a scent-bag for a piller.”

And from that time Mrs. Robinson accepted no gift without first consulting her list.  It became known that she looked upon useful articles with favor, and brooms and flat-irons and bright tinware arrived constantly.  Then it was that the heterogeneous collection began to pall upon Esther.  The water-set had not yet been presented, but its magnificence grew upon her, and she persuaded Joe to get a spindle-legged stand on which to place it, although he could not furnish the cottage until October, and had gone in debt for the few necessary things.  She pictured the combination first in one corner of the little parlor, then another, finally in a window where it could be seen, from the road.

Esther’s standards did not vary greatly from her mother’s, but she had a bewildered sense that they were somehow stepping from the beaten track of custom.  On one or two points, however, she was firm.  The few novels that had come within her reach she had conned faithfully.  Thus, even before she had a lover, she had decided that the most impressive hour for a wedding was sunrise, and had arranged the procession which was to wend its way towards the church.  And in these matters her mother, respecting her superior judgment, stood stanchly by her.

Nevertheless, when the eventful morning arrived she was bitterly disappointed.  She had set her heart on having the church bell rung, and overlooked the fact that the meeting-house bell was cracked, till Joe reminded her.  Then the weather was unexpectedly chilly.  A damp fog, not yet dispersed by the sun, hung over the barely awakened village, and the little flower-girl shivered.  She had a shawl pinned about her, and when the procession was fairly started she tripped over it, and there was a halt while she gathered up the roses and geraniums in her little trembling hands and thrust them back into the basket.  Celia Smith tittered.  Celia was the bridesmaid, and was accompanied by Joe’s friend, red-headed Harry Baker; and Mrs. Robinson and Uncle Jonas, who were far behind, made the most of the delay.  Mrs. Robinson often explained that she was not a “good walker,” and her brother-in-law tried jocularly to help her along, although he used a cane himself.  His weather-beaten old face was beaming, but it was as though the smiles were set between the wrinkles, for he kept his mouth sober.  He had a flower in his button-hole, which gave him a festive air, despite the fact that his clothes were distinctly untidy.  Several buttons were off:  he had no wife to keep them sewed on.