She held her white-bonneted
head up like some gentle flower which had sprung back to itself after
a hard wind. She had a new white bridal bonnet, as Richard had
wished; it was trimmed with white plumes and ribbons, and she wore a
long white-worked veil over her face. The wrought net-work, as
delicate as frost, softened all the hard lines and fixed tints, and
gave to her face an illusion of girlhood. She wore the two curls over
her cheeks. Richard had asked her why she didn't curl her hair as she
used to do.
All the people saw Sylvia's white bonnet; it seemed to turn their
eyes like a brilliant white spot, which reflected all the light in
the meeting-house. But there were a few women who eyed more sharply
Sylvia's wedding-gown and mantilla, for she wore the very ones which
poor Charlotte Barnard had made ready for her own bridal. Sylvia was
just about her niece's height; the gown had needed a little taking in
to fit her thinner form, and that was all.
Charlotte's mother had brought them over to Sylvia's one night, all
nicely folded in white linen towels.
"Charlotte wants you to have 'em; she says she won't ever need 'em,
poor child!" she said, in response to Sylvia's remonstrances. Mrs.
Barnard's eyes were red, as if she had been crying. It had apparently
been harder for her to give up the poor slighted wedding-clothes than
for her daughter.
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