With a tear in her eye, and smiles in the dimples of her plump cheeks, Dame Spikeman looked on the adorning of the lady for the marriage ceremony, by the cunning fingers of Prudence Rix.  She thought, as she gazed on the fair, young face, of her own maiden beauty, of the timid happiness that palpitated in her bosom on her wedding-day, of the dress that heightened her charms, and (shall I so soon acknowledge it?) of what would be becoming for herself on a like occasion, wherein she was to bear a principal part, and the too-fascinating Master Prout another.  Let not the solemn pretender to decorum, who, in proportion to his demureness, is apt to be worse than others, with owlish visage quote, “frailty, thy name is woman,” or, “e’er those shoes were old,” or whatever musty apothegms besides, as stale and senseless.  The name of Frailty is no more woman than man, and old shoes have no business at weddings.  Stand aside O censorious reader, (I desire not thy acquaintance,) while I whisper to both maid and widow, what, probably, they have often pondered—­that life is short, and that in Heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage.

“Bless thy sweet face!” said the dame. ("Pull down the stomacher a little, Prudence; an’ it had been a thought longer it were better.) Ne’er saw I so lovely a bride.”

“It is the latest London fashion,” muttered Prudence, “that hath come to these outlandish parts, where, thank the Lord, our stay will not be much longer than the stomacher.”

“What is the girl chattering about?” said the dame.  “Why, Prudence Pert, thou wilt tear the beautiful satin with thine impatience.”

“You have already made me prick my fingers three times, dame,” answered the waiting-maid, pettishly.  “I never could dress my young lady aright, when I was talked to.  There!  O dear! you have made me cut a ribbon in the wrong place!”

“Did ever one see the like!” exclaimed the widow, as, with a jerk of the petulant Prudence, a few stitches now gave way.  “Why, minx, thou art as much flustrated as if thou wert to be married thyself.”

“I know somebody, I guess,” said the girl, in so low a tone as to be heard only by her mistress, close to whose ear was her mouth, “who would like to be flustrated in that manner.”

Eveline could not restrain her smiles at the impertinence of her maid, and her gaiety seemed to please the good dame.

“Thou art a sensible child, Eveline,” she said.  “Now have I known many a wedding, and generally there are quite as many tears as smiles at them.  I like not that, exactly, though I believe I was as great a simpleton as most, when I mar—­(here the dame decorously put her handkerchief to her eyes to receive the tears which she did not shed)—­when I—­; but I must not think of my sorrow, when thy happiness is just commencing.” (Dame Spikeman wiped her eyes, and went on more composedly.) “There is nothing thou hast cause to fear, and thou wilt soon get used to it.  But, who is to be thy bridesmaid?”