“Well, yes, as you put it, and ‘viewed from the higher standard,’ as Miss Inches would say, perhaps it would.  Still, bridesmaids and all that are very pretty to look at; and folks will be surprised if you don’t have them.”

“Never mind folks,” remarked the irreverent Katy.  “I don’t care a button for that argument.  Yes; bridesmaids and going up the aisle in a long procession and all the rest are pretty to look at,—­or were before they got to be so hackneyed.  I can imagine the first bridal procession up the aisle of some early cathedral as having been perfectly beautiful.  But nowadays, when the butcher and baker and candlestick-maker and everybody else do it just alike, the custom seems to me to have lost its charm.  I never did enjoy having things exactly as every one else has them,—­all going in the same direction like a flock of sheep.  I would like my little wedding to be something especially my own.  There was a poetical meaning in those old customs; but now that the custom has swallowed up so much of the meaning, it would please me better to retain the meaning and drop the custom.”

“I see what you mean,” said Clover, not quite convinced, but inclined as usual to admire Katy and think that whatever she meant must be right.  “But tell me a little more.  You mean to have a wedding-dress, don’t you?” doubtfully.

“Yes, indeed!”

“Have you thought what it shall be?”

“Do you recollect that beautiful white crape shawl of mamma’s which papa gave me two years ago?  It has a lovely wreath of embroidery round it; and it came to me the other day that it would make a charming gown, with white surah or something for the under-dress.  I should like that better than anything new, because mamma used to wear it, and it would seem as if she were here still, helping me to get ready.  Don’t you think so?”

“It is a lovely idea,” said Clover, the ever-ready tears dimming her happy blue eyes for a moment, “and just like you.  Yes, that shall be the dress,—­dear mamma’s shawl.  It will please papa too, I think, to have you choose it.”

“I thought perhaps it would,” said Katy, soberly.  “Then I have a wide white watered sash which Aunt Izzy gave me, and I mean to have that worked into the dress somehow.  I should like to wear something of hers too, for she was really good to us when we were little, and all that long time that I was ill; and we were not always good to her, I am afraid.  Poor Aunt Izzy!  What troublesome little wretches we were,—­I most of all!”

“Were you?  Somehow I never can recollect the time when you were not a born angel.  I am afraid I don’t remember Aunt Izzy well.  I just have a vague memory of somebody who was pretty strict and cross.”

“Ah, you never had a back, and needed to be waited on night and day, or you would recollect a great deal more than that.  Cousin Helen helped me to appreciate what Aunt Izzy really was.  By the way, one of the two things I have set my heart on is to have Cousin Helen come to my wedding.”