Aunt Gabrielle had just reached that part of the hymn on the 25th of December, 1822, when I became aware of a strange confusion among the male voices outside. The women either stopped singing entirely, or sang out of time and tune; the voices chased after one another, scarcely sustained themselves, and seemed stifled by a sudden emotion. My mother's hand, which held mine, trembled for a moment, then grew firm by a great effort of her will. Her voice rose, soared above the voices of the others, who, realizing at once that they had wandered inopportunely, hurried back to the fold, and so the hymn ended in good order after this surprising interruption. What had happened? Something very simple indeed. A young woman had made her way through the crowd, had entered the kitchen, and apparently anxious to remain unnoticed, had fallen on her knees at a little distance from the others, and buried her face in her hands. I recognized her at once. It was Marion, my favorite, the best seamstress on the place, and the prettiest girl in the borough. I would surely have run forward to kiss her but for the solemnity of the occasion, which forbade my leaving my place or making a noise. She was weeping bitterly. Why are you weeping, my sweet Marion? I was wild to have the ceremony end, that I might find out from her. All the other girls seemed embarrassed. My mother alone, whom I looked full in the face, appeared calm; but her face lied,--I knew it by the trembling of her hand. After the benediction of the Yule log it was the custom for all the women present to kiss my mother before proceeding to the church. They came up in good order, one after another; and in spite of their number, which amounted to some thirty or forty, this formality only required a few minutes. I think that my mother yielded to it rather in spite of herself, for she was an extremely reserved woman; but all these kind souls would have believed that the laws of the universe had been reversed if this part of the ceremony had been left out. As mistress of ceremonies, and on account of her great age, Aunt Gabrielle opened the march. Now, Aunt Gabrielle was a character. She was the living repertory of folk-songs, legends, and customs. People came from everywhere to consult her when they wanted to know how such and such a thing should be done. Perhaps you believe that etiquette is peculiar to palaces. Most assuredly not. In my day a wedding had more than a thousand equally important formalities. My good aunt, who was the oracle of these forms, had never made use of them for herself.