On the Sunday following the one of Barnabas Thayer's call Sylvia Crane appeared at meeting in a black lace veil like a Spanish senorita.

The heavily wrought black lace fell over her face, and people could get only shifting glimpses of her delicate features behind it.
Richard Alger glanced furtively at the pale face shrinking austerely behind the net-work of black silk leaves and flowers, and wondered at some change which he felt but could not fathom.

He scarcely knew that she had never worn the veil before.

And Richard Alger, had he known, could never have fathomed the purely feminine motive compounded of pride and shame which led his old sweetheart to unearth from the depths of a bandbox her mother's worked-lace veil, and tie its narrow black drawing-string with trembling fingers over her own bonnet.
"I'd like to know what in creation you've got that veil on for ?" whispered her sister, Hannah Berry, as they went down the aisle after meeting.
"I thought I would," responded Sylvia's muffled voice behind the veil.
"You've got the flowers right over your eyes.

I shouldn't think you could see to walk.