ections, that the mind itself couldn't act. Be
it as it may, I stood as if stupefied,--while old Mr. Price talked and
prayed, it seemed, an age. I was roused, however, and glad enough I
wasn't in church, when he called out,--

"_Ameriky!_ do you take this woman for your wedded wife?" and still more
rejoiced when he added, sternly,--

"_Delphiny!_" (using the long _i_,) "do you take _Ameriky?_"

We both said "Yes." And then he commended us affectionately and
reverently to the protection and love of Him who had himself come to a
wedding. He then came to a close, to Polly's delight, who said she "had
expected nothin' but what the old gentleman would hold on an hour,
--missionaries to China, and all."

Old Mr. Price took a piece of cake and a full glass of wine, and wished
us joy. He was fast passing away, and with him the old-class ministers,
now only traditional, who drank their half-mug of flip at funerals, went
to balls to look benignantly on the scene of pleasure, came home at ten
o'clock to write "the improvement" to their Sunday's sermon, took the
other half-mug, and went to bed peaceably and in charity with the whole
parish. They have gone, with the stagecoaches and country-newspapers;
and the places that knew them will know them no more.

Betsy Ann, who was mercifully admitted to the wedding, pronounced
it without hesitation the "flattest thing she ever see,"--and was
straightway dismissed by Polly, with an extra frosted cake, and a charge
to "get along home with herself." Then Mr. Sampson walked slowly home
with Mr. Price, and Laura and myself were left looking at each other.

"Delphiny!" said Laura.

"Ameriky!" said I.

"Well,--it's over now. If you had happened to be Mrs. Conant's daughter,
you know, your name would have been Keren-happuch!"

"On the whole, I am glad it wasn't in church," said I.

Mr. Sampson returned before we had finished talking of that. And then
Laura, said, suddenly,--

"But you _must_ decide on Aunt Allen's gift, Del. What shall it be? What
will be pretty?"

"You shall decide," said I, amiably, turning to my husband.

"Oh, I have no notion of what is pretty,--at least of but one
thing,--and that is not in Aunt Allen's gift."

He laughed, and I blushed, of course, as he pointed the compliment
straight at me.

"But you _must_ think. I cannot decide, I have thought of five hundred
things already."

"Well, Laura,--what do you say?" said he.

"I think a silver salver would