CHAPTER II.
My father's marriage was solemnized very quietly in that old gray church
with its fairy chime of bells, all alive on that occasion, which stood
in the busy street not far from our quiet house. An aged and reverend
bishop, who had administered the sacred communion to Washington and his
wife when the city we dwelt in had been the temporary residence of that
chief, performed the ceremony, which, with the exception of my father's
immediate household and neighbors, none were invited to witness. When
the solemn rite was ended, I made my way to Constance, so fair that day
in her pearl-gray robes and simple white bonnet, and clasped her hand.
She stooped down and kissed me many times, to conceal her tears,
probably.
"Call me mamma now, dearest," she said, at last; "and let the name be as
a new compact between us. Now let Evelyn come to me, my love, she, too,
is my daughter; and go with Mrs. Austin."
I did as she directed, grasping Mrs. Austin's hand tightly as we walked
home, and proceeding at so brisk a pace that she was often obliged to
check me.
"Poor child, why should you rejoice so?" she said, mournfully. "Don't
you know you have lost your father from this hour? Do you suppose he
will ever love you as well again--you or Evelyn? Poor, ignorant,
sacrificed babes in the woods!"
"I don't care," I said.
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