never wholly be banished
from her heart.

When it had once been settled that the marriage should take place,
there seemed no reason for deferring it; no reason, except that Father
Antoine's carnations were for some cause or other, not yet in full
bloom, and both he and Marie were much discontented at their tardiness.
However, the weather grew suddenly hot, with sharp showers in the
afternoons, and both the carnations and the Ayrshire roses flowered out
by scores every morning, until even Marie was satisfied there would be
enough. There was no tint of Ayrshire rose which could not be found in
Father Antoine's garden,--white, pink, deep red, purple: the bushes grew
like trees, and made almost a thicket, along the western boundary of the
garden. Early on the morning of Hetty's wedding, Marie carried heaped
basketfuls of these roses, into the chapel, and covered the altar with
them. Pierre Michaud, now a fine stalwart fellow of twenty-one, just
married to that little sister of Jean Cochot, about whom he had once
told so big a lie, had begged for the privilege of adorning the rest of
the chapel. For two days, he and Jean, his brother-in-law, had worked in
the forests, cutting down young trees of fir, balsam, and dogwood. The
balsams were full of small cones of a brilliant purple color; and the
dogwoods were waving with showy white flowers. Pierre set each tree in
a box of moist earth, so that it looked as thriving and fresh as it had
done in the forest; first, a fir, and then a dogwood, all the way from
the door to the altar, reached the gay and fragrant wall. Great masses
of Linnea vines, in full bloom, hung on the walls, and big vases of
Father Antoine's carnations stood in the niches, with the wax saints.
The delicate odor of the roses, the Linnea blossoms, and carnations,
blended with the spicy scent of the firs, and made a fragrance as strong
as if it had been distilled from centuries of summer. The villagers had
been told by Father Antoine, that this stranger who was to marry their
good "Tantibba," was one who had known and loved her for twenty years,
and who had been seeking her vainly all these years that she had lived
in St. Mary's. The tale struck a warm chord in the breasts of the
affectionate and enthusiastic people. The whole village was in great
joy, both for love of "Tantibba," and for the love of romance, so
natural to the French heart. Every one who had a flower in blossom
picked it, or brought the plant to