“Forgive me, my sweet Rachel, if on this morning I venture to suggest a single addition to your simple dress. There are always idle persons standing about the church door on such an occasion as a wedding, and I am foolish enough to be unwilling that the careless eye of every indifferent spectator should scan the exquisite beauty of your face to-day. There is something extremely painful to me in the thought that the blushing cheek of my fair bride should be the subject of cold remark. Will you not, for my sake, dearest, veil the rich treasure of your loveliness for one brief hour? I know I am selfish in making the request, but for once forgive my jealousy, and shade your brightness from the stranger’s gaze.” The parcel contained a Brussels lace veil of surpassing richness, so delicate in its texture, so magnificent in its pattern that Rachel could not repress an exclamation of pleasure at the sight. Her toilet was at length completed. A dress of plain white satin, finished at the neck by a chemisette of simple lace, her hair folded plainly around her small head and plaited in a single braid behind:—such was the bridal attire of the rigid little Quakeress. “And the veil, Rachel,” whispered her cousin. “Why, rather than shock Harry’s delicacy,” said she, half smiling, “I believe I will wear it, but I shall look very ridiculous in it.” The veil fell in rich folds nearly to her feet, and nothing could be imagined more beautiful than her whole appearance in this plain but magnificent costume. “You want a pearl comb, or something of the kind, to fasten this veil properly,” said one of the bridesmaids. “What a pity you had not kept the box,” whispered her cousin. Rachel smiled as she replied, “if I had ever dreamed of wearing such an unusual appendage as this perhaps I might have retained the rose at least.” Rachel had taken the _first_ step when she consented to adopt the veil, the second would have cost her less trouble.