“I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. ” They were in the elder Widgett girl’s bedroom; Hetty was laid up, she said, with a sprained ankle, and a miscellaneous party was gossiping away her tedium. Young and old were dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—a wedding,—was about to take place. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English.
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