“Lovely, indeed,” cried Aunt Lorena. “I would look like a romantic scarecrow. No, David, the ladies who wore those gowns dressed in the fashion of their day, and I mean to dress in the fashion of mine. I warn Azalea right now that if she doesn’t let me send to Charleston for fit and proper clothing for her, she’ll be wearing those stiff old things to the day of her—marriage.” “Oh, I’d be certain to have my wedding dress made out of the chests, I should think,” I said, perfectly delighted with the idea. “Hasn’t grandmother saved her wedding dress?” “Of course she has, and her wedding chemise and slippers and veil and fan.” “Oh,” I cried, “just let me lie still and think about it awhile. Isn’t it like a fairy tale?” So I did. I lay still quite a while looking at the fire, and wondering if it could be true that I, Azalea Knox, who had believed myself to be little more than a waif, was coming into a home all mellow and beautiful with old customs and memories and loves—and hates, too, I suppose. Then I seemed to feel that something was wrong, and looking up I saw my new Uncle David frowning at me—distinctly frowning. So I said: “Why do you frown, Uncle David?” And he said: “Why are you so interested in bridal dresses?” “Aren’t all girls interested in bridal dresses?” “Not when they are infants like yourself, miss.” “I am eighteen and over,” I said. “If you don’t have daydreams when you are eighteen, when will you have them?” “True for you, Azalea,” cried my aunt with her high laugh. “Pay no attention to him. I was just turned seventeen when we became engaged.” “The circumstances were peculiar,” said my uncle, rather red in the face. “They were,” said my aunt. “You wanted me, and you were afraid I might—want someone else.” “But we waited,” said my uncle, “a long, long time.” “Two years and three months,” said my aunt. “Few, however, would be justified in marrying so young,” said my uncle. “But we were peculiarly suited to each other. Both families approved. You, my dear Azalea, have not been so situated as to see much of people in your own station of life, so it will probably be many years before you will have any occasion to ask my mother for her old white satin wedding gown.” I said nothing at all but just smiled at the fire. I could feel Uncle David still watching me. At last he said: “Why are you smiling?” “I am happy.” “Are you still thinking of the wedding gown?” “Only vaguely.” “Azalea, have you any secret to tell us?” “None.” “Could Mrs. McBirney throw any light on that peculiar smile of yours?” “Ask her.” But would dear old Ma go back on me? You know she would not. “Zalie is like my Jim,” she drawled, “a good deal of a tease.” I threw her a kiss. And Uncle David shook his fist at me.