Not another word did she say until they had left the village and were driving down a steep little hill, the road part of which had been cut so deeply into the soft soil, that the banks, fringed with blooming wild cherry-trees and slim white birches, were several feet above their heads.
The child put out her hand and broke off a branch of wild plum that brushed against the side of the buggy.
"Isn't that beautiful?
What did that tree, leaning out from the bank, all white and lacy, make you think of ?" she asked.
"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew.
"Why, a bride, of course--a bride all in white with a lovely misty veil.
I've never seen one, but I can imagine what she would look like.

I don't ever expect to be a bride myself.

I'm so homely nobody will ever want to marry me--unless it might be a foreign missionary.

I suppose a foreign missionary mightn't be very particular.

But I do hope that some day I shall have a white dress.