She
wore her sleek, golden hair in a quaint arch around it. Her
forehead was very broad and white. She was fresh and young and
hopeful. The mother's heart contracted in a spasm of pain as she
looked at her. How like the girl was to--to--to the Spencers!
Those easy, curving outlines, those large, mirthful blue eyes,
that finely molded chin! Isabella Spencer shut her lips firmly
and crushed down some unbidden, unwelcome memories.
"There will be about sixty guests, all told," she said, as if she
were thinking of nothing else. "We must move the furniture out
of this room and set the supper-table here. The dining-room is
too small. We must borrow Mrs. Bell's forks and spoons. She
offered to lend them. I'd never have been willing to ask her.
The damask table cloths with the ribbon pattern must be bleached
to-morrow. Nobody else in Avonlea has such tablecloths. And
we'll put the little dining-room table on the hall landing,
upstairs, for the presents."
Rachel was not thinking about the presents, or the housewifely
details of the wedding. Her breath was coming quicker, and the
faint blush on her smooth cheeks had deepened to crimson. She
knew that a critical moment was approaching. With a steady hand
she wrote the last name on her list and drew a line under it.
"Well, have you finished?" asked her mother impatiently. "Hand
it here and let me look over it to make sure that you haven't
left anybody out that should be in.
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