So with her forehead drawn into an anxious pucker, and her lips moving, she started down the aisle whispering, "One, two, three--_throw_! One, two, three--_throw_!" Each time, as she reached the word "throw" and grasped a handful of daisies to suit the action to the word, she tilted forward on the high French heels and almost came to a full stop in her effort to regain her balance.
But Ca'line Allison was a plucky little body, accustomed to walking the tops of fences and cooning out on the limbs of high trees, so she reached the altar without mishap.

Then with a loud sigh of relief she settled her crown of daisies and rolled her big eyes around to watch the majestic approach of her mother.
No matron of the four hundred could have swept down the aisle with a grander air than Sylvia.

The handsome lavender satin skirt she wore had once trailed its way through one of the most elegant receptions ever given in New York, and afterward had graced several Louisville functions.

Its owner had given Sylvia the bodice also, but no amount of stretching could make it meet around Sylvia's ample figure, so the proceeds of the fish-fry and ice-cream festival had been invested in a ready-made silk waist.

It was not the same shade of lavender as the skirt, but a gorgeous silver tissue belt blinded one to such differences.