The girl cannot quite forget the friends
she left behind her, when she so suddenly ran away from home. The appeal
to her personal appearance is not, however, in vain. She looks in the
cheval-glass which draws forth Mrs Jenkins' admiration, and thinks she
has seldom seen anything so pretty as the reflection of her own person
in her bridal dress. She hastily dries her eyes, and turns round and
round several times to assure herself that all is right.
'Ah! Howel is knowing everything!' says Mrs Jenkins. 'Silks and laces,
and flowers, and worked-handkerchiefs, and all as white as a lily! And
your cheeks a deal redder than any I do see here along! My deet! but you
do be looking genteel.'
'Do I look as if I had been crying, aunt?' asks Netta, wetting her eyes
with lavender water. 'I'm afraid of Howel and those grand people. I wish
he hadn't asked them.'
'Oh, for sham! Netta. There they are, I shouldn't wonder! Yes indeet!
says Mrs Jenkins, 'I hear them talking on the stairs.'
A knock at the bedroom door is followed by the entrance of two ladies,
apparently mother and daughter; the former a portly and roseate dame,
clad in the richest of brocades and white lace shawls--the latter a thin
and somewhat yellow damsel, a tired in white and pink bonnet and mantle
to match, evidently in bridesmaid's gear.
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