They were married. Then came the breakfast, that hour of uneasiness and
blushing to such a bride as this; but at last she was released. She sped
up-stairs, thanking goodness it was over. Down came her last box. The
bride followed in a plain travelling dress, which her glorious eyes and
brows and her rich glowing cheeks seemed to illumine: she was handed
into the carriage, the bridegroom followed. All the young guests
clustered about the door, armed with white shoes--slippers are gone by.
They started; the ladies flung their white shoes right and left with
religious impartiality, except that not one of their missiles went at
the object. The men, more skilful, sent a shower on to the roof of
the carriage, which is the lucky spot. The bride kissed her hand, and
managed to put off crying, though it cost her a struggle. The party
hurrahed; enthusiastic youths gathered fallen shoes, and ran and hurled
them again with cheerful yells, and away went the happy pair, the
bride leaning sweetly and confidingly with both her white hands on the
bridegroom's shoulder, while he dried the tears that would run now at
leaving home and parent forever, and kissed her often, and encircled her
with his strong arm, and murmured comfort, and love, and pride, and joy,
and sweet vows of lifelong tenderness into her ears, that soon stole
nearer his lips to hear, and the fair cheek grew softly to his shoulder.
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