In Search of a Mission

"Then thus let me crown, our bridal," quoth Grace, placing on her
sister's head the wreath of white roses.

"Treacherous child!" cried Rachel, putting up her hands and tossing her
head, but her sister held her still.

"You know brides always take liberties. Please, dear, let it stay till
the mother has been in, and pray don't talk, before her of being so very
old."

"No, I'll not be a shock to her. We will silently assume our immunities,
and she will acquiesce if they come upon her gradually."

Grace looked somewhat alarmed, being perhaps in some dread of
immunities, and aware that Rachel's silence would in any one else have
been talkativeness.

"Ah, mother dear, good morning," as a pleasant placid-looking lady
entered, dressed in black, with an air of feeble health, but of comely
middle age.

Birthday greetings, congratulations, and thanks followed, and the mother
looked critically at the position of the wreath, and Rachel for
the first time turned to the glass and met a set of features of an
irregular, characteristic cast, brow low and broad, nose retrousse, with
large, singularly sensitive nostrils quivering like those of a high-bred
horse at any emotion, full pouting lips, round cheeks glowing with
the freshest red, eyes widely opened, dark deep grey and decidedly
prominent, though curtained with thick black lashes. The glossy chestnut
hair partook of the redundance and vigour of the whole being, and the
roses hung on it gracefully though not in congruity with the thick
winter dress of blue and black tartan, still looped up over the dark
petticoat and hose, and stout high-heeled boots, that like the grey
cloak and felt hat bore witness to the early walk. Grace's countenance
and figure were in the same style, though without so much of mark or
animation; and her dress was of like description, but less severely
plain.