The bride’s sister was Kate; younger and livelier, at present, than Mary, though not so handsome. She was Sophy’s peculiar friend amongst the cousins, and the pair now betook themselves for private conversation and the decorative process to Kate’s room. Mary and Anne had some low-voiced chat apart, to which I was carefully deaf; but, when their secrets were told, Mary, chancing to look round, saw me fumbling, with benumbed fingers, at buttons and hooks and eyes, and took me under hand immediately, hugging me up in her warm arms, with the exclamation, that the little mite was half frozen. I found her very nice and comfortable then; better by far than anything more angelic and exalted. We were not long in arranging ourselves, and then Sophy and Kate being routed out from their retreat, we formed a procession downstairs; Mary and Anne arm-in-arm, and I under Mary’s other wing, and Sophy and Kate in an affectionate feminine entanglement behind. All the cousins got up and roared at us again, in those big voices of theirs, chorussed by various guests, and put us into the warmest seats; mine being a footstool by Mary at one side of the fire-place, where I felt most cosily arranged for getting toasted, and seeing everybody. And there were plenty of people to see. It was a very long room in which we were, having on one side the three windows which we had seen shining from the road, and seats in them where the girls had stowed themselves in knots, the red curtains making a background for their figures, which was as pictorial as need be. The men folk were mostly young, and mostly sons of Anak, like the cousins, but there were a few elders, contemporaries of Mary’s father, who was a white-haired, handsome old man; and there were also several matronly women, mothers of the occupants of the window-seats, and of the young men their brothers. Everybody called everybody else by his or her Christian name in the most friendly way, and it was not until the evening was half over that I began to find out who was who, for such a ceremony as introduction seemed quite unheard of. To be sure, Sophy brought up a long rail of a boy to me who seemed to have a difficulty with his arms, and said significantly, “Poppy, this is Cousin Joseph; now, Joseph, you are to be polite to Miss Poppy;” but no civilities ensued, and my attention was called away by hearing Mary say in a soft, half-laughing tone, “George, look at your boots.” She must have meant something else, for glancing at the person whom she addressed, I saw that he had turned his trousers up to come out into the snow when we arrived, and that he was now sitting with them stretched out before him in that inappropriate arrangement. He coolly stooped and put them right, and then looked at Mary, and smiled. “Who is it?” whispered I.