"Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee." She was killingly dressed in the rural-simplicity style.

All her robes and sashes were of purest white; and a knot of field-daisies and grasses, with French dew-drops on them, twinkled in an infinitesimal bonnet on her little head, and her hair was all _creped_ into a filmy golden aureole round her face.

In short, dear reader, she was a perfectly got-up angel, and wanted only some tulle clouds and an opening heaven to have gone up at once, as similar angels do from the Parisian stage.
"You like me, don't you ?" she said, as she saw the delight in John's eyes.
John was tempted to lay hold of his plaything.
"Don't, now,--you'll crumple me," she said, fighting him off with a dainty parasol.

"Positively you shan't touch me till after church." John laid the little white hand on his arm with pride, and looked down at her over his shoulder all the way to church.

He felt proud of her.
They would look at her, and see how pretty she was, he thought.