The result was that no one of Doctor Churchill's patients--and he had
won a large and growing practice among all classes of people--felt left
out or forgotten, and that, as the clock struck the hour of noon, the
church was crowded to the doors with those who were real friends of the
young people.
"Somehow I don't feel a bit like a bride," said Charlotte, looking,
however, very much like one, as she stood in the centre of her mother's
room in bridal array.
Four elegant male figures, two in frock coats, two in more youthful but
equally festive attire, were surveying her with satisfaction.
Near by hovered Celia, the daintiest of maids of honour: Mrs. Birch, as
charming as a girl herself in her pale gray silken gown: and little
Ellen Donohue, a six-year-old protegee of the family, her hazel eyes
wide with gazing at Charlotte, whom she hugged intermittently and adored
without cessation.
"You don't feel like a bride, eh?" was Lanse's reply to Charlotte's
statement. "Well, I shouldn't think you would--an infant like you. You
look more suitable for a christening than for a marriage ceremony.
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