re a lady--of how she would dress, if
she were only a bride--of how cook would dress, being bridesmaid,
conjointly with her sister 'in place' at Fulham, and how the clergyman,
deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and respectful. What
day-dreams of hope and happiness--of life being one perpetual holiday,
with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold it--of every Sunday
being a Sunday out--of pure freedom as to curls and ringlets, and no
obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps--what pictures of
happiness, vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous to us,
bewilder the brain of the little housemaid at number six, all called into
existence by the wedding at the corner!

We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better
reason than commonly presents itself. It should be pleasant to us to
know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since
upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are very
easily bestowed.

But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from the
door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all fluttering
in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane Adams, who
comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking her in,
under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread forth in
state, and--sight of sights!--her young mistress ready dressed for
church.

And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe and
edged themselves in at the chamber-door--there is Miss Emma 'looking like
the sweetest picter,' in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers, and all
other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and quality of
every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one moment, and
never forgets to her dying day)--and there is Miss Emma's mamma in tears,
and Miss Emma's papa comforting her, and saying how that of course she
has been long looking forward to this, and how happy she ought to be--and
there too is Miss Emma's sister with her arms round her neck, and the
other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the children, who would
cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and yet sob for fear sister
Emma should be taken away--and it is all so affecting, that the two
servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane Adams, sitting down upon
the stairs, when they have crept away, declares that her legs tremble so
tha